




% 





















GLAD RAY 





GLAD RAY 




GLAD RAY 


By 

CLARA PALMER GOETZINGER 


CHICAGO 


FISHER PUBLISHING COMPANY 



% 



Copyright, 1923 by 
Clara Palmer Goetzinger 
All rights reserved 


Transferred u<«i 
Copyright Office 

JAN 3D '2# 



APR 12 *23 


TO THE LOVE CHILDREN 
OF THE WORLD 

G OD alone creates. You are born in HIS 
Image and Likeness. There is but one 
Creator, the Father of us all, and His Infinite 
Love eternally shields and sustains you. No 
man-made law can rob you of your Divine Heri¬ 
tage of Peace, Plappiness and Prosperity. No 
human opinion can change the Directorship and 
Justice of God. 

GLAD RAY, a Child of Love, blessed with 
beauty, grace and intelligence, but damned by 
bestial mortals, men who prey and women who 
nurder, condemned under the present day code 
to shame, disgrace, and spiritual oblivion, 
through suffering comes into the great under¬ 
standing of her birthright and masters a sordid 
ivorld. 

This message of Hope comes from the in¬ 
spired pen of a Woman who understands. It’s 
soothing Truth will heal the aching heart of 
many mothers. This book is given to the world 
with the full understanding of the wave 
of denunciation which always follows the ap¬ 
pearance of a fearless Truth. But Glad Ray, 
like all who claim the inheritance, “In the Image 
%nd Likeness of God ” will live through Eternity, 
:heering, blessing and uplifting all mankind. 

THE PUBLISHERS. 




GLAD RAY 

CHAPTER I. 

S HE was five feet four inches and weighed one 
hundred and ten pounds. Though delicately 
slender, every movement was graceful and suggested a 
sensitive, clinging, innocent nature which knew neither 
coquetry nor the feminine embellishment of powder 
and rouge. Her eyes were deep violet-blue shaded by 
long, silken, bronze-brown lashes. The flesh of her 
fair body was like the velvet petals deep in the heart 
of a pale, pink, Kilarney rose. Her mouth was allur¬ 
ingly soft and full, but not in the least sensuous. A 
wealth of wavy light brown hair with glints of bronze 
framed her perfectly chiseled features and accentuated 
the picture of trusting, loving young womanhood rig¬ 
idly schooled in domestic obedience and puritanical de¬ 
corum. Slender hands were indicative of a long line 
of proud Southern ancestors whose touch was both del¬ 
icate and talented. Her shapely feet tread lightly and 
becomingly in minuet or graceful bearing. Born of a 
loving, religious mother and stalwart lawyer-father, 
Gladys Longworth had been reared under the discip¬ 
line of unvarying southern traditions and strictest de¬ 
nominational doctrines. 


9 


10 


GLAD RAY 


Following the death of Colonel Marcus Lloyd Long- 
worth, his widow, Mrs. Elizabeth Lee Longworth, and 
her beautiful daughter, Gladys, continued to live on 
the edge of town in the old colonial family mansion 
located in the center of a sixty acre estate, landscaped 
with rose gardens, hollyhock hedges, peony bushes, ar¬ 
butus and honeysuckle runners, grape arbors, bushes 
of lilac, syringa and elderberry. 

During her mother’s heroic financial struggle, 
Gladys had come in closer contact with the opposite 
sex than either parent ever had permitted during more 
prosperous days. However, the chaperonage of the 
widowed mother created an atmosphere of culture at 
the Longworth mansion, and the few priviliged to live 
there appreciated the charm and dignity of these two 
Southern gentlewomen. An old negro gardner, Sam¬ 
uel, and his wife, Dora, had remained faithful to the 
memory of their master, the Colonel, keeping up the 
attractive appearance of the Longworth estate, and 
serving the household whenever their outside labors 
permitted. The wages were small, but like many of 
the colored servants remaining from childhood to old 
age in the service of the genuine Southern aristocracy, 
Samuel and Dora knew no other home and loved their 
mistress and “Mis’ Gladis” with slavish loyalty. 

During his matriculation at the Louisville Medical 
College, Raymond Hallaway made his home with the 
Longworths, partaking of the delicious meals prepared 
by Dora, enjoying the use of the late Colonel’s ex¬ 
tensive library, and sharing the inspiring privileges of 
the splendid estate. Living so long under the same roof 


GLAD RAY 


11 


it was but natural, in their quest for companionship, 
that the physician-to-be should find himself frequently 
in the presence of Gladys. Both young people were 
more than congenial,—their dispositions, accomplish¬ 
ments and ambitions so much in accord that they found 
themselves gradually but positively drawn into the 
maelstrom of love. 

Early in his senior year, Hallaway made no pretense 
of hiding his affections for the beautiful Kentucky girl 
who, unaccustomed to the ardorus attentions of men, 
at first met his advances with charming timidity. Lat¬ 
er, his persistency won the girl’s love which she be¬ 
stowed with a devotion and faith unquestioned in its 
sincerity. They were not in a position to marry, yet 
the desire for possession—to be one, was maddeningly 
irresistible. Reason itself was temporarily dethroned. 
In their blind, passionate love everything was forgot¬ 
ten—duty to themselves, to their relatives and to soci¬ 
ety. Nothing seemed worth while in life unless it was 
related to the superb emotion as they conceived it. To 
them, their understanding of love was all-sufficient. 
In declaring his undying devotion and asking Gladys 
to become his wife, Raymond frankly explained that 
for certain family reasons their marriage could not 
take place for several months, possibly years. Yet he 
had made his plea so sincere and convincing that her 
faith had remained unshaken. Evening after evening, 
following a whispered exchange of hopes and confi¬ 
dences, and the good night kiss, Gladys would retire 
to her room and meditate, wondering why it was 
necessary for mere words from a third person to make 


12 


GLAD RAY 


them husband and wife. She secretly felt no minister 
could unite them more sacredly than their own holy 
love, as she conceived it, already had done. Gladys 
Longworth quietly laughed at man-made laws, be¬ 
cause of her inability to discriminate between them 
and the Divine Laws of Creation. Hers was more of 
an emotional, impulsive love than an affection based 
on the even balance of discretion and endless loyalty. 
So puritanically guarded from the necessary truths and 
texts which empty sentiment pronounces unfit for the 
knowledge of young women, a nature like Gladys 
Longworth’s invariably confuses the varied strata of 
sex affection, and frequently embraces momentary 
passion believing it to be the sublime emotion of en¬ 
during and unselfish love. 

Gradually the unreasonable admonitions of Mrs. 
Longworth, and her tactless, insistent manner of com¬ 
pelling her daughter’s recognition of the family’s nar¬ 
row religious beliefs, had antagonized Gladys until the 
latter determined there was no form of compromise; 
that the Lees and Longworths held obsolete views 
which were absolutely inapplicable to modern society. 
It was not until years later she discovered through bit¬ 
ter experience that to COMPLY with and thus 
PROVE RESPECT for necessary civic laws is to 
EXEMPLIFY regard for Divine Laws. 

One quiet moonlight evening, after Raymond had 
finished his studies for the following day, he and 
Gladys leisurely strolled about the rose gardens and 
seated themselves under the protecting cover of the 
honeysuckle arbor. 


GLAD RAY 


13 


“Raymond, do you think it is wicked,” queried 
Gladys, “as mother insists it is, to believe less in the 
power of man than in the convictions of your own 
soul ?” 

“No, dear,” Raymond responded, “I don’t. No man 
can think for us. Yet, every man has the same right 
to his views as you or I, and we must respect the 
rights of others.” 

“I didn’t mean it that wayshe parried, “I intended 
to convey that no man-made law can unite us any 
closer than we are now,—not in Spiritual reality.” 

“You are right as far as Spiritual reality is con¬ 
cerned Raymond argued, “but we must respect the 
rights and demands of those about us,—at least to a 
degree.” 

“I’m so weary of poor mother’s conception of social 
laws and a body-guard for every move I make.” 
Gladys sighed as her lover drew her beautiful form 
closer. 

“She’s a noble little mother, at that, dear,” he whis¬ 
pered. 

“Of course, she is; but—” 

“In many ways,” interposed Raymond, “she is nar¬ 
row, and has kept the needed truths from you, while at 
the same time she has thumped a perpetual tattoo on 
religious matters. However, mothers are alike the 
world over. They always mean well, though only a 
few of them change their personal views with time. 
She means to do her religious duty as she sees it.” 

“It’s a wonder she doesn’t demand that I wear hoop 


14 


GLAD RAY 


skirts and bustle because Grandmothers Lee and Long- 
worth wore them.” 

The lovers laughed. Raymond kissed the alluring 
lips as she pursed them for the pretended need of con¬ 
solation. 

“My darling, does any other human count in the 
Presence of the Sacrament of our Immortal Love?” 
he pleaded. 

“No, Raymond,” she admitted. 

“Are the man-made laws of church or state greater 
than the laws of the Creator?” 

“Never, dear,” she trustingly answered. 

“Though we respect their views, nothing anyone can 
say or do will add to or take from this perfect love of 
ours. Is it forever and ever we promise to love, cher¬ 
ish and aid each other in sickness and in health, to bear 
and forbear, to assist or resist as the instance may re¬ 
quire? Is it to be forever and ever, my darling?” 

“Forever and ever, Raymond.” 

Like an evil omen, came a sudden crash on the brick 
terrace beneath the portico not far from the honey¬ 
suckle arbor. Gladys screamed with terror. Raymond 
immediately investigated and found plaster fragments 
of an ear broken from one of the two faun’s heads 
which served as ornamental guards on either side of 
the drive near the main entrance. 

“Nothing at all, dear,” he assured his sweetheart, 
“but the crumbling evidence of age. The north faun 
refused to retain one of its ears any longer. Samuel 
will discover the pieces in the morning.” 

“Is that all; and I so frightened. On the still night 


GLAD RAY 


15 


air, and from out of the darkness, it sounded like a 
ghostly warning” 

Don’t let it worry you, darling,” he lovingly coun¬ 
seled. “Let me see,—just what were you promising? 
Oh, yes, you were saying how long you would love me 
and promise to be mine. Will you repeat it once more, 
my own?” 

“Forever and ever, Raymond.” 

“How wonderful to hear you promise those comfort¬ 
ing truths. Some day, when I can dwell on sordid 
things, I’ll tell you a little of the misery I made for my¬ 
self in my youth; how I broke my poor old mother’s 
heart; but when those memories weigh me down, know 
that your reassuring words of love for me, and your 
faith in my promises, give me the greatest kind of en¬ 
couragement.” 

For a few moments they remained in meditative 
silence as they crept a little closer and watched the 
grey fleecy clouds chasing one another before the face 
of the bright silver moon. 

“Will you bear in mind, Gladys,” continued Ray¬ 
mond analytically, “that before the ALL-Seeing, ALL 
Understanding God, you are my wife? You are mor¬ 
ally my wife even before I am able to acknowledge to 
the world this fact, and pay a minister or Justice to 
satisfy the law. Even the marriage ceremony is a 
mere matter of obedience to social laws, and has no 
connection with the laws of our souls. Will you re¬ 
member that ?” 

“Yes, dearest,” she responded, fairly radiant with 
the joy that his views harmonized with her own, and 


16 


GLAD RAY 


brought her above the pale of ordinary mortals in his 
estimation, at the same time augmenting her faith in 
his every word. 

“Will you believe me, little wife-of-my-soul, that we 
are given to each other without resistance or false 
standards? I know what I want in this world,—it is 
you, dear. You are necessary to my success in life. I 
not only know you to be my wife, but I have pictured 
you the perfect and beautiful mother of the dream- 
child cherished in my secret heart as long as I have had 
ideals.” 

Gladys lowered her fringed lashes over her large 
blue eyes, and marveled at the courage of her lover to 
portray frankly his ultimate wishes in life. 

“Raymond,—dearest,—I never knew men thought 
about the woman they chose for their life-mate in the 
light of motherhood too,” Gladys confided. 

“Many men don’t,” he answered, “but a few realize 
at some period or other that a noble woman is never 
so wonderful as when she becomes a mother. Gladys, 
darling, it is only natural that I, at the age other men 
generally begin their domestic lives, should at least 
hope and dream of a home, wife and children. I can 
scarcely wait until it is possible to make that home and 
support you,—the dearest little girl in all this uni¬ 
verse.” 

“I am so proud you feel me worthy.” Gladys cud¬ 
dled closer to her lover. “But, personally, I feel a 
humble reticence about being a perfect or beautiful 
mother. Yet, I am happy you feel as you do. I never 


GLAD RAY 


17 


dared speak to you about being your wife, in the sight 
of God, for fear you would think me presuming.” 

“Wonderful little girl! Hereafter, will you keep any 
of the great truths from me? Especially, will you 
promise always to confide in me concerning your hopes 
and ambitions?” His voice vibrated like soft, deep, 
melodious music. 

“I will confide it all to you, providing I can find the 
words to express myself.” 

“If the ideal is a part of the perfect love of your 
soul, dearest, the words to express and the strength to 
live the ideal will be quite synonymous.” 

“Will you always look upon me as your wife?” she 
timidly asked him. 

“Always, from now through all Eternity. Will you 
always look upon me as your husband? Tell me, 
Gladys.” 

“From this hour you are my husband ” 

“For how long?” he urged. 

“For Eternity ” she promised, sincerely meaning not 
to fail in her word of honor. 

Leaving the garden in the tender embrace of night, 
the lovers parted with a fervent kiss. 

Week after week, and month after month harmoni¬ 
ously passed in the Longworth household until one 
memorable, warm evening in May previous to Ray¬ 
mond Hallaway’s graduation. He and Gladys were 
seated in the large double steamer chair on the wide 
veranda overlooking the gardens. The beauty of the 
first half of a Southern moon, thousands of twinkling 


18 


GLAD RAY 


stars and picturesque surroundings caused the lovers 
to linger in peaceful silence. At last Gladys interrupted 
the symphony of blissful romance:— 

“Raymond, dear, after dinner to-night, I promised 
mother not to remain up late. Entrancing as all this is, 
I must go to my room.” 

“The night is ideal, and you are more so. It is al¬ 
most desecration to leave this perfect retreat / 5 Ray¬ 
mond held her soft, warm hands within his as he gazed 
into the depths of her responsive eyes. 

“You are so good to me, dear, and feed me so lav¬ 
ishly with love, that I, too, am reluctant to leave, but 
Raymond — 55 

“Stay just a little longer, darling. We never have 
had a more wonderful love-feast than this one to-night, 
—at least not since our perfect understanding / 5 

“How sweet it sounds to hear you speak that way,” 
she whispered. 

“Does it, little girl? Are you happy we shall live 
together always? Just you and I,—husband and 
wife ? 55 

“Sublimely happy, my wonderful doctor-man / 5 

“Come then, my darling, grant me just one more 
kiss, and I will carry you to your room .’ 5 

Softly, lovingly and tenderly, moved by a strange 
expectancy, Gladys offered her lips. Their good-night 
kiss became a rapturous tribute of sublime passion. 

“Carry me now, before all this exquisite joy 
vanishes. Please carry me . 55 

“My wonderful,—my precious love ! 55 

“Yes, dear,—please carry me ? 55 


GLAD RAY 


19 


“And place you like a baby in your little bed for the 
night?” His voice, low and vibrant, thrilled her en¬ 
raptured soul. 

“Yes, Raymond, my—my—” 

“Say it, precious; call me just once the name you 
know.” 

“My husband; soul of my soul!” 

“Such ecstasy,—oh, baby-wife!” 

“You promised,” coaxingly, “so take me in your 
great strong arms, and carry me to my little white 
bed.” 

“I will, my beloved.” 

Raymond joyously complied, nestling his lips for an 
instant against her warm white throat. Lightly and 
easily, he carried her into the house, up the main stair¬ 
way, entering his sweetheart’s room, tenderly placing 
his precious burden on the snow-white bed. She pre¬ 
tended to be asleep, but a happy smile lingered about 
the corners of her soft, red lips. Raymond knelt be¬ 
side her, kissing the closed eyelids and warm, slightly 
parted mouth. She roguishly peeped through quiver¬ 
ing lashes, and they both laughed at her innocent sub¬ 
terfuge. 

“One more kiss, my precious, and I will leave you 
for the night.” 

After Gladys granted the lingering caress, her im¬ 
petuous lover started abruptly toward the door. 

“Give back the kiss I gave you,” she coaxed. 

“I must go, blessed baby-wife-of-my-heart. I dare 
not remain a moment longer.” 


20 


GLAD RAY 


Gladys half raised herself on her elbow, astounded 
at the glorious happiness she experienced. 

“Raymond, please don’t go,—not yet.” 

“Good-night, darling.” His words belied his desires, 
as he returned for one more caress. 

“Husband! Mine! Stay here, and love me just a 
little more.” 

“I yearn to, but dare not. Great God, but I love 
you!” 

“Then kiss me again, Raymond,” she pleaded. 

“Sweetheart! Can’t you understand it is almost im¬ 
possible to restrain my adoration for you? Please 
don’t coax me again. This is all-sublime in its per¬ 
fectness.” 

“Come! Come!” she repeated, her voice alluringly 
modulated. 

“Gladys,—why shouldn’t I ? It is the call and union 
of our souls. YOU ARE MINE! MY BELOVED! 
MY WIFE!” 

“Raymond! MY LOVE! MINE!” 

Again bending over the fascinating vision before 
him, he whispered with rapture and passion: 

“I WORSHIP YOU! I WORSHIP YOU!” 


CHAPTER II. 


F OR a long time the dream of Gladys Longworth 
and Raymond Hallaway remained serene and un¬ 
disturbed ; but folly’s inevitable spectre forced its pres¬ 
ence upon these two as it does on all who toy with 
the ethics of moral law. Their romance was abruptly 
shattered, the cost appalling, the future mercilessly 
bleak with its social ostracism and physical and mental 
anguish. 

Gladys kept their secret not only from her associates 
but particularly her mother. Through fear and des¬ 
pair this had been her lover’s command. At last, 
driven into a mingled state of despondency and shame 
over the continued postponement of their marriage, 
Gladys reluctantly consented to rent secluded quarters 
in a nearby town until after the birth of their child. 
Hallaway was devotion itself to the expectant mother; 
but every time she pleaded with him to marry, he would 
upbraid her for lack of trust. He even humiliated the 
heartbroken girl by informing her it was not becoming 
for a gentlewoman to beg the hand of her lover in 
marriage,—all this to silence Gladys and pacify his 
own conscience. 

Mrs. Longworth trustingly believed her daughter, 
while away from home, was visiting former Art School 
chums . Gladys wrote interesting weekly letters. She 

21 


22 


GLAD RAY 


described brilliant, but imaginary functions she had 
attended, and delayed her return because of delightful 
fetes which, she wrote, “would be a social misfortune 
to miss.” 

Mrs. Longworth, full of unselfishness and pride in 
\vhat she believed to be her daughter's social success, 
encouraged the visit by sending small checks, denying 
herself many necessities. Not the least of the mother’s 
sacrifices was doing much of her own housework with 
the assistance of Dora. Her home consisted of eigh¬ 
teen rooms, most of them rented to students, and the 
absence of Gladys for several months laid a heavy bur¬ 
den on the aged woman. 

As the months preceding the birth of the babe less¬ 
ened to weeks, and the weeks to days, Gladys became 
more and more determined to have a final understand¬ 
ing and see if there could be any logical reason why 
the father of her unborn child should not be forced to 
share the disgrace which he had so impulsively cast 
over her life. She was willing to bear the cross, but 
the burden alone seemed too heavy for single punish¬ 
ment. Hallaway’s promises seemed forgotten. 

Visions of her child’s future; the horror of being 
without a legal protector in the face of public scorn; 
the stigma of social shame forced upon the babe; the 
natural curiosity of the young mind as maturer years 
approached,—such dreams became more and more in¬ 
tolerable. The thought that her son or daughter might 
forever miss the powerful influence of a legal father’s 
guiding hand, was just one of a thousand horrors 
which confronted the expectant mother. Again and 


GLAD RAY 


23 


again the most unmentionable pictures presented them¬ 
selves while she endured the last ten days of waiting. 

As the days sped by she naturally shrank from the 
oft repeated humiliation of asking her lover to do his 
duty, only to hear the same torturing argument:— 

“As soon, my dear, as I am graduated and estab¬ 
lished in some new town where neither of us has been 
known, and one other obstacle has been removed, I 
will marry you. We can take our child and return to 
my practice without any one being the wiser.” 

“But, why the delay?” she entreated. As your wife 
I could be with you and share the uncertainties and 
hardships.” 

“Gladys, for my sake be more reasonable,” he count¬ 
ered. “Your condition is such that you are utterly de¬ 
void of reason and when this is over you are going to 
feel the absurdity of your present desires. You do not 
understand the utter impossibility of your demands.” 

A depressing expression spread over the features of 
the expectant mother as she dubiously lifted and low¬ 
ered her shoulders. 

“But, Raymond, dear,—” 

“Have you forgotten,” he interrupted, “our former 
promises, and especially that you would not question 
my silence nor doubt my honor?” 

“No, I’ve not forgotten, but that was before—before 

55 

“Then in heaven’s name let well enough alone!” he 
exclaimed. “Know that I am a man of my word. It 
will be my privilege, and not my duty, to marry you 
as soon as conditions are favorable. Trust me, dear,” 


24 


GLAD RAY 


he continued, changing his exasperated tone to one of 
tenderness. 

Gladys realized there must be a dreadfully serious 
reason why Raymond refused to marry her. She in¬ 
wardly cringed at the thought of being considered un¬ 
reasonable. She had heard mature ladies discourse 
concerning the peculiarities of delicate women, but the 
very thought of being considered eccentric was a re¬ 
flection on the pride the prospective mother felt in her 
efforts to develop the future talents and shape the 
moral tendencies of her unborn child. Exhausted and 
fairly heartbroken, Gladys spent the last two days of 
waiting in the hospital registered as Mrs. R. G. Hall/’ 
Hallaway was referred to as ‘Dr. Hall/ and posed as a 
decidedly devoted husband. The night of the birth he 
tried to assist the attending physician and nurse, but 
the pathetic agony of his loved one proved too much 
for Hallaway’s nerve. Kneeling by her couch of pain, 
he assured Gladys again and again that some day he 
would convince her what such devotion and courage 
meant. He kissed her eyes, hair and feverish lips, 
leaving tears, of which he was not ashamed, upon the 
pale cheek as he whispered: “Bravest of little mothers/’ 
Gladys was too weak to doubt his expressions of lov¬ 
ing sympathy. They gave comfort to her aching 
heart. She smiled with maternal pride as she watched 
her lover hold the baby girl protectingly against his 
breast, and heard him say: “Our baby, dear—just 
ours.” 

Two weeks passed and at last came the hour when 
Raymond Hallaway v^as to take his baby and Gladys 


GLAD RAY 


25 


back to the latter’s modest room. His selfishness and 
dual life had not forced their weight upon him. The 
only thing which appeared to torture Hallaway was the 
living proof of his lack of foresight and moral stamina. 
If Gladys so chose, the gossip-loving world would soon 
gloat over his misfortunes, and sneer with mocking 
contempt at his personal reasons for keeping secret the 
realization of his most sacred dream. Hallaway had 
desired the child with all his heart and was proud of 
her, but he did not wish the world to know of her 
until he was able to provide proper protection. She 
was the child of his ideals. She was conceived at the 
height of his reclaimed health, ambition, and vital en¬ 
ergy. Not until Hallaway drove slowly along, with 
Gladys beside him holding the baby, was there pro¬ 
found regret concerning the little one’s birth. It was 
the weakening attitude of the young mother which 
caused the forebodings. During most of the drive 
there was comparative silence, both realizing too late 
their appalling responsibility. 

No one is so free of short-comings that at one time 
or another he or she is not secretly gratified when 
some family tradition or condition offers excuse for 
mistakes. So it was with Hallaway, who took refuge 
in the asurance that the Longworths always had been 
a proud family of Revolutionary fame. Indeed, they 
were so very proud that nothing ever was revealed 
concerning their domestic life—‘the military events 
comprising the most important epochs, periods con¬ 
spicuous with straps, spurs, bayonets and heroes. Each 
generation learned of its predecessor’s worthy achieve - 


26 


GLAD RAY 


merits, and diplomatically refrained from revealing 
domestic difficulties, as the bravery of their men and 
the nobility of their women, during the great battles, 
gave the “House of Longworth” just reason to feel 
proud of its share in Southern glory. If domestic con¬ 
flicts crossed swords with the military forces, they 
were silenced by the Longworth pride, and eventually 
crushed under the laurels of patriotic honors. 

Raymond Hallaway believed if Mrs. Longworth 
ever heard of her daughter’s misfortune, she would use 
every effort to silence the report. In this he failed to 
consider the proud spirit of indignation and sense of 
justice which permeates those crushed by sudden mis¬ 
fortune. Only death can prevent a normal Southern 
man or woman from fighting for family honor,—and 
even then posterity clings to the right of protecting its 
dead, and eagerly takes up the unfinished labors of 
keeping the good old name free from public ridicule. 

Gladys yearned to return home to her mother, but 
Raymond pleaded with her to postpone the ordeal, or 
place the infant in some institution until such time as 
they could be married. Either of these suggestions 
drove the lonely girl almost frantic as it had always 
been her real nature to live above reproach and to be 
especially loyal to Mrs. Longworth. Continuing such 
deception was most revolting. 

Every week Raymond’s father, who lived in a small 
town in Ohio where he was engaged in the drug busi¬ 
ness, sent his son a small allowance. When this sum 
was divided between Gladys and Hallaway, it proved 
little more than a starvation income and extras for the 


GLAD RAY 


27 


child were obtained only through extreme sacrifice on 
the new mother’s part. It was not long before both 
parents realized the wants of their babe were impera¬ 
tive. The little one needed warmer clothing and more 
nourishing food. When taken for its daily airing and 
other roomers stopped to admire the infant’s soulful, 
brown eyes, they shivered at the sight of its fragile 
body. Gladys fully understood that it was her own 
mode of living which was having a detrimental effect 
on the baby. If permitted to return to her mother and 
unburden her mind, she knew her former appetite 
would return. She realized worry had made the infant 
peevish during the day and sleepless at night and knew 
drugs given to babes simply to induce sleep occasion¬ 
ally result in idiocy and murder. 

The new mother hesitated in permitting her student- 
lover to continue treating the little one, though it was 
evident that Hallaway was sincere in his desire to give 
the best of his limited knowledge. Every change in 
treatment or suggestion caused the mother-heart si¬ 
lently to yearn for the consultation of a more experi¬ 
enced physician. However, Hallaway removed all 
doubts of his love for the baby by his frank devotion. 
So far as his fear of publicity permitted, and his lim¬ 
ited means allowed, he gradually manifested the joys 
and responsibilities of fatherhood, displaying far 
greater concern over the infant’s welfare than that of 
Gladys. 

Hallaway spent Saturday and Sunday of every week 
with Gladys and their baby, but from Monday morning 
until Friday evening he remained in Louisville attend- 


28 


GLAD RAY 


ing College during the day and at night occupying his 
room at the home of Mrs. Longworth, facing that 
proud woman with well-concealed fear and smoothly- 
spoken untruths. One Wednesday night, while he 
was studying, Mrs. Longworth became exceedingly ill 
of what later proved to be plural pneumonia. For sev¬ 
eral days previous she had suffered from a severe cold, 
but this particular night she experienced unusual pain 
and high fever. She sent a servant to Hallaway with 
instructions to come to her immediately. 

The moment he entered the sick woman’s chamber, 
gazed upon her haggard face, and felt her faint pulse, 
Hallaway knew she had only the slightest chance of 
recovery. Mrs. Longworth could hardly speak as she 
feebly dictated a telegram to Gladys, urging her to re¬ 
turn. Hallaway’s hour of deepest humiliation had at 
last arrived. He would not only be forced to make his 
life an open book to Gladys, but face the contempt and 
scorn of her mother. Only too well he realized if her 
daughter were not home within four hours—that Mrs. 
Longworth would order the colored servant, Dora, to 
send a second message, and then the entire affair 
would surely become public. Under the latter condi¬ 
tions, Gladys would bring the baby home with her 
without consulting him. 

The only solution Raymond could possibly conceive 
was to personally go to his sweetheart instead of wir¬ 
ing, and tell her about her mother’s serious illness. He 
would say news of the child might kill the patient. He 
intended to plead once more with Gladys to leave the 
baby in the care of the landlady. Hallaway left Louis- 


GLAD RAY 


29 


ville on the 2:10 A. M. train, a short time after Mrs. 
Longworth had given him the message to wire. 
Gladys would neither listen to his pleading, nor voice 
her future intention. She was determined not to per¬ 
mit the child to be absent from her sight one minute, 
and absolutely refused to consider further deceiving 
Mrs. Longworth. 

Before the birth the young mother had been too deli¬ 
cate for strong decision. She had made but a half¬ 
hearted effort to believe in the arguments her lover 
advanced. Little by little she came to the conclusion 
that most of his excuses were based on fear. Since her 
present existence was such a pathetic reality, and the 
future a dark cheerless uncertainty, Gladys intended, 
as health returned, either to force a marriage or com¬ 
pel him to divulge the reason why he continually 
dodged the issue. All her life she had believed in the 
raw coldness of unadulterated truth, indifferent to 
whether or not it injured her nearest and dearest. 
This was Longworth logic, and a tradition instilled in 
Gladys from infancy. If moved to speak, she must 
utter the truth without relation to consideration, kind¬ 
liness, protection, diplomacy or silence;—truth regard¬ 
less of consequences. 

Raymond voiced his strongest arguments. He saw 
education, happiness, realization of all his dreams,— 
everything at stake. It was wit against wit; will 
against will; and public humiliation against family 
pride. The man depended on the woman’s broadness 
of spirit; her understanding of the marriage vows as 
he understood them; her promises in which he shared 


30 


GLAD RAY 


equally; as well as a combined maternal and matehood 
affection to guide her impulses. Hallaway knew he 
could and WOULD carry out his part of their com¬ 
pact, but doubted more and more the capacity of his 
sweetheart. All he implored of her was silence for a 
few months. He dreaded the effect it would have on 
his love if Gladys persisted in exhibiting only con¬ 
tempt for his every assurance. It was Hallaway’s sin¬ 
cere intention eventually to legalize the union, just as 
it was already a spiritual fact. He, also, possessed a 
type of pride not of family aristocracy, but a man-pride 
that the mistakes of drunken youth should not be dis¬ 
closed for public ridicule; neither should he be cruci¬ 
fied for the sacredness of his own ideals simply to jus¬ 
tify the narrow Longworth traditions as interpreted 
by one equally narrow off-spring. 

Gladys Longworth vizualized her life as that of a 
most unhappy and unfortunate mistress. The present 
was her only opportunity; and the future, as far as she 
could see, held nothing but bleak suffering. Her am¬ 
bitions appeared to be dormant; vindictiveness held 
sway; while diplomacy fled. 

Hallaway held the mother of his baby a thousand 
times closer than any legal ties could bind. Other men 
in like circumstances might have proven cads and lib¬ 
ertines ; but only love, ideals, and hope had prompted 
him. Irritable, sometimes brusque, he was afraid, if 
Gladys continued obstinate, it would cause him to har¬ 
bor malice rather than affection. Raymond Hallaway 
had made many failures, but the one to crush him most 
was the realization he could not convince the woman he 


GLAD RAY 


31 


loved that all promises would be kept sacredly and joy¬ 
fully just the instant fate released him from unso¬ 
licited bondage. To be sure, he had refused to dis¬ 
close to Gladys any details of his bondage or the bitter 
past. For this she had doubted him. Because of her 
doubt, Hallaway was beginning to wonder if the one 
great passion visited upon the truly mated—the com¬ 
bination of love, trust, ambition and happiness—was 
what he had dreamed it would be, after all. 

It was a forceful awakening for the man to compre¬ 
hend that an understanding, when it takes place amid 
conditions of devotion, passion, and the protection of 
the family roof, is only HIS version and assumes pro¬ 
portions of unreasonable retaliation on the part of the 
woman after she bears her lover a child, which the 
taunting, hypocritical, amening populace dares to 
brand as illegitimate. All the primitive instincts of the 
woman arise in defiance of social ostracism. She will 
sell the most sacred secrets of her chosen lover to con¬ 
vince her near-friends (the mighty judges, the pious, 
the sinless, the fire-brand carriers of the REAL cause 
of a woman’s blackened name) that she can bring the 
father of her child to scorn,—to absolute subjection. 
For this she inwardly hates herself, but cries aloud 
with Christian cheats and murderers of their unborn— 
“JUSTICE.” 

So it was with Gladys,—at first she loved Raymond 
with a ravishing abandon, but after the birth she 
weighed her love by the atom. His actions mystified 
as responsibilities unfolded and her faith wavered as 
morbid fears for the baby increased. Raymond be- 


32 


GLAD RAY 


came weary of her plea for justice and constant cry of 
doubt. They had their understanding, and now at the 
crucial test Gladys was faltering. She had promised 
not to question his silence, and in return he had given 
his word to protect her. Gladys, knowing nothing of 
her lover’s earlier life, never dreamed of the impossi¬ 
bility of an immediate marriage. To her, it was a case 
of protection and social respectability for the child. 
She could see no legal reason why casual promises 
made before more serious events should stand in the 
path of the law. For a time after his arrival with her 
mother’s urgent message, Raymond tried to convince 
Gladys that publicity might deprive him of gradua¬ 
tion and of being able to support her. No arguments 
had the least influence on her. She hurriedly packed 
her few belongings, and with each article she placed 
in the suitcases her lips became more set. 

“Gladys, in the name of heaven, listen to reason,” 
he implored. “Spare the branding of our baby, even if 
you—” 

“Stop,” she shrieked. “You have harangued on this 
subject as long as I am going to listen. I am going 
home to mother, and my baby is going with me.” 

“Then the public will learn everything,” he argued. 
“Silence for a few months is our only salvation. Peo¬ 
ple do not gabble about something they never have 
known. I am supporting you the best I can for the 
present. Often I am in actual need that you and the 
little one may have extras. This is not said to brag 
for, God knows, you, too, have gone without many 
necessities. Soon it will not be required of you to 


GLAD RAY 


33 


make a single sacrifice. Won’t you be fair with me? 
Go to your mother, sweetheart, but leave the baby 
here.” 

“Never! She goes with me, and I am going home.” 
Gladys gave one of the suitcases a bang. 

“Very well, do as you please. Take the conse¬ 
quences. I have tried to open an easier avenue for all 
three of us, and you have set your Longworth jaw 
against every suggestion. I hope you will be better 
satisfied with your own efforts than you have been 
with mine. It’s a rotten tradition which impels you to 
divulge the pitiless truth, when silence, decency and 
diplomacy would suffice.” 

In a frenzy of despair Hallaway picked up the two 
satchels and followed Gladys as she left her cheap 
abode with the baby clasped tightly against her breast. 


CHAPTER III 


HE return journey was uneventful. In less than 



A four hours after Raymond Hallaway left Louis¬ 
ville, he was back with Gladys and their baby. Dora, 
the colored servant, opened the door of the Longworth 
home and stood aghast as the trio entered. Llallawav 
placed the satchels on the halltree, and took the sleep¬ 
ing infant from its mother’s arms, laying it tenderly 
on the soft cushions of the hall davenport. Hurriedly, 
he and Gladys removed their heavy wraps. There was 
a worried, haggard look on both faces as they entered 
Mrs. Longworth’s room. 

“Mother! Mother! O, mother, darling!” was all 
Gladys could say as she knelt beside her parent’s bed. 
Sob after sob convulsed her tired body. The sincerity 
of her sorrow was pitiful. Hallaway stood respectfully 
at one side while tears, he tried earnestly to control, 
rolled softly down his cheeks. Mrs. Longworth be¬ 
lieved this demonstration of grief was entirely because 
of her illness and approaching death, which she vague¬ 
ly apprehended. With effort she stroked the soft 
blonde hair of her only daughter as the latter, still 
kneeling, gradually restrained her emotion. There was 
painful silence. Then, without warning, there came a 
faint cry. An expression of consternation spread over 


34 


GLAD RAY 


35 


Hallaway’s features. Gladys raised her eyes first to 
her lover and then to meet the inquiring gaze of her 
mother. The infant’s wail was repeated louder than 
before. 

At last Raymond Hallaway understood that the 
combination of a woman’s will, and the mixed blood of 
the Lees and Longworths, were the conditions with 
which he had to reckon. Unless he desired to seem a 
brute he would have to make an explanation of his 
past. His torture was mental. He despised to dig up 
old bones just to explain WHY the marriage could not 
take place for months—possibly years. He regretted 
most of all the distrust of Gladys and dreaded the un¬ 
necessary scorn for the baby and its mother. In the 
darkest hours of his early manhood he had passed 
through the bitter experience of a social outcast and 
had no desire to inflict the same punishment on his 
own loved ones. By taking the baby to Louisville, Hal¬ 
laway knew it would be impossible to escape the Chris¬ 
tian tongue lashings inflicted by pious critics whose 
chief occupation is to attend the House of God on the 
Seventh Day to pray for the salvation of their own 
souls with the remaining six days spent in sending the 
souls of others to Hell. 

During their walk to the depot, Raymond had fully 
realized the utter futility of further argument. How¬ 
ever, there came over him a desire that she would get 
her fill of the Louisville decision; but he was too much 
in love, and too much of a father for vicious retalia¬ 
tion. The only punishment Hallaway did decide to 
inflict was in case Gladys succeeded in exposing him 


36 


GLAD RAY 


to public sneers,—then he intended to add sufficient 
detail concerning his past to cause her vanity to suffer. 

“That sounds like the voice of a very small babe, 
dear. Where is it?” whispered the patient with effort. 

“Mother! Oh, my poor mother!” And again 
Gladys burst into tears. 

Hallaway crossed the room to the side of the kneel- 
ing figure, lifted her tenderly and drew her within his 
strong embrace. Neither of the young parents proved 
equal to the task of concealing their sorrow and re¬ 
morse. Slowly the truth dawned on the astonished 
sufferer. 

“Raymond,—my boy,—what does this mean?” Mrs. 
Longworth gasped. “What does this mean?” 

“Mother, please—” Gladys tried to answer for her 
lover. 

“Are you married?” the elder woman interrupted. 

“Mrs. Longworth, you are too ill to agitate yourself 
like this—” 

“Hush!” The patient’s voice was harsh. “This is 
no time to pity me, nor to tell me to spare my strength. 
I must know the truth. Are you married ?” Her small 
glistening eyes shone like black beads against her 
white face. 

“No, not yet, but—” 

“Don’t finish,” she cried. “I am in no condition to 
hear empty excuses. Gladys is nineteen and you are 
twenty-seven,—both old enough to know the depths 
—of—crime.” Her voice broke for an instant as she 
choked back the tears. “From you, Raymond, I desire 
—the truth. You must speak—NOW. I want only— 


GLAD RAY 


37 


the truth. Do you—hear me? The TRUTH!” she 
exclaimed hysterically. 

“Mrs. Longworth, I beg of you, please do not ex¬ 
haust yourself. I will tell you only the truth. This 
affair will be properly adjusted and Gladys and I will 
be married as soon as possible. I simply cannot ex¬ 
plain further—just now.” 

Hallaway was willing to tell the elder woman the 
truth, if matters had to be brought to an immediate 
issue, but he had a premonition that the truth would 
kill the patient. Gladys released her trembling body 
from her lover’s arms, and again knelt by the side of 
Mrs. Longworth. Raymond left the room, returning 
shortly with his infant daughter. He laid the little one 
on the bed beside the grandmother where she ceased 
crying and once more went peacefully to sleep. 

“Why have you—not—been married?” and the 
patient’s eyes wandered from the baby to its father. 

“Mrs. Longworth, there are conditions I intend fully 
to explain later. Rest assured, we will be married as 
soon as it is possible.” 

“This is terrible,” moaned the exhausted woman. 
“You are both without consideration. Poor, little, 
nameless soul!” She passed her cold hand lightly over 
the warm fair face of the infant. “You—must—you 
positively must—be married—without delay.” Here 
her voice completely failed and again tears forced their 
way down the withered cheeks. 

“So you, too, are going to brand our baby as name¬ 
less and illegitimate, just as hundreds of other earthly 


38 


GLAD RAY 


saints will do?” And for a moment Hallaway forgot 
the patient’s condition. 

“Yes, and not only is it illegitimate, but if it should 
die, our church teaches, it would go—” 

“It matters little to me what your church teaches, 
or any other for that matter. It is a pity that you have 
lived all these years on narrow creeds and ancient dog¬ 
mas, simply because your ancestors were satisfied with 
them. They used to cut the grain by hand, while now 
we use machinery. Yet they were perfectly satisfied 
that there was no better way than theirs at that time.” 

“That has nothing to do with where your baby will 
go if it dies.” It was plain the sick woman was using 
every effort to convince Raymond of his error. 

“Mrs. Longworth, do you truly suppose that this 
innocent lamb-of-a-babe would be condemned to eter¬ 
nal damnation by its own Creator,—the all-merciful 
J .idge, for the shortcomings of its parents ? Do you 
V. uly suppose that my ACKOWLEDGED offspring 
his not the same right to my name, as a babe born of 
f irents zvho fairly hate each other, yet have been le¬ 
gally married? Do you truly believe that man-made 
hws can legalise MY OWN LIFE'S BLOOD more 
sccredly than the law of Spirit?” Hallaway was wax¬ 
ing warm, and failed to see the uselessness of arguing 
with the traditions of a Lee. 

“It is illegitimate; it is! Poor little nameless out¬ 
cast !” sighed the sick woman, whose life had been 
planned and lived according to the beliefs and dictates 
of her forefathers, and in fear, instead of the LOVE, 
of God. 


GLAD RAY 


39 


Gladys could no longer remain silent. 

“Mother, may I speak?” 

“What is there for you to say, my child?” 

“For a long time I have tried to make Raymond 
realize my attitude. Now that I have you both here 
together, it will make it easier for me to explain,” she 
began. “Once I loved Raymond with a passion akin to 
adoration. I yearned to marry him, but he made the 
same evasive excuses to me that he has to you.” Hal- 
laway’s face was ashen; his expression defiant. “Af¬ 
ter months of mental humiliation, I believe the old love 
is dead. I would never marry a man whom my mother 
or I had to force into doing his duty. Before the baby 
came I would have begged him on my knees to unite 
with me in doing the legal and fair thing by our child. 

I am well now, and—and—oh, mother, can’t you 
understand by entering into a marriage with Ray¬ 
mond, against his desires, it would only sell every par¬ 
ticle of self-respect I have left? I will not marry him, 
that’s all ,—I will not.” 

Hallaway and Mrs. Longworth gazed in amazement 
at the excited girl. Gladys, already risen from her 
knees, stood close to the foot of the bed where she 
could better look upon the faces of the two dearest be¬ 
ing on earth to her,—her mother and her baby. 

“Gladys! My child! Do you realize what you are 
saying?” 

“I do, mother.” 

“Have you no love for your baby, nor consideration 
for its blighted future?” gasped the sufferer. 

“Yes mother, I have thought of a thousand miser- 


40 


GLAD RAY 


able trials, if I were to enter into a loveless marriage 
simply to give the darling a name. What she lacks 
legally will be compensated in my unlimited mother- 
love. I adore my baby, but it would be nothing short 
of mockery to force this affair further. Without per¬ 
fect faith, love and honor, marriage becomes a cheap 
form of licensed sex relationship. Can’t you see the 
consistency of that, mother, dear?” 

“Are you sure you do not love Raymond, my child?” 

Gladys looked at the father of her baby with a steady 
eye, then again at her mother. 

“In a way, of course I care for him. Once I loved 
him with a wonderful faith and intensity, but his per¬ 
petual excuses and perfect willingness to continue in 
this dreadful false light before you, our friends, and 
in defiance of self-respect has—” 

“Sweetheart,” interrupted Hallaway, “you are un¬ 
knowingly doing me a great injustice. Try not to say 
things you will regret.” 

“See here, Raymond Hallaway,” the girl raged, 
“when I left my mother’s home I was ashamed, sick 
at heart, and almost a physical wreck, but my faith 
and love for you were sublime. I was indifferent to 
every one’s wishes but yours, your happiness and your 
selfish desires. I deceived my mother, the best friend 
a girl ever has, and lied to all my friends for you.” 

“In the meantime,” Hallaway fairly snarled, “I sup¬ 
pose I was running about publishing the whole truth 
to all the scandal-mongers simply because it happened 
to be the truth, and not telling dozens of lies to keep 
your name sweet, and make the future easier for both 


GLAD RAY 


41 


of us; not wearing shabby clothes in order to give you 
and baby some comforts. I was going to dances, en¬ 
tertainments, giving blow-outs, and disposing of my al¬ 
lowance in gay fashion,—never handing you the larger 
share every week. Oh, I've been having a joyful time, 
I have.” 

“Don’t, Raymond,—your sarcasm is terrible.” 

“Your common sense has taken a vacation,” he re¬ 
torted. 

“Until we reached the little town where the babv 

* 

came to comfort me, you led me to believe you would 
make me your wife. You appeared more than persist¬ 
ent that I promise before God not to fail you.” 

“That is still my desire. No time was mentioned. 
The date was the one subject I purposely avoided. It 
has been my honest desire to be married as soon as 
possible. It is my honest desire unless you keep on 
nagging me to desperation.” 

“I understood there was some secret reason for your 
not being open and above board with me and, because 
I trusted and loved you so, accepted the situation 
without weighing consequences.” 

“This is surely one fine time to start weighing con¬ 
sequences,'’ came the ironical reply. 

Gladys tossed her head haughtily, as she continued: 

“All I needed to come unto myself was to tell the 
truth to mother.” 

“You certainly took the proper time to do it, and 
have exhibited extreme unselfishness for your mother’s 
health. I am positive this will be a vital factor toward 
her improvement.” 


42 


GLAD RAY 


“If I had your sarcastic tongue I’d never speak,” 
and Gladys choked back the tears. 

“If I had your nagging one I’d amputate it,” he 
flashed back. 

“Well/’ she sighed, “I have learned that it frequently 
takes the gall of a mistake to make us clean, to broaden 
our vision, and to radiate the light of a soul.” 

“I can’t see that it has broadened your vision to any 
great extent; neither can I notice any particularly in¬ 
telligent reflection from your soul.” 

“You are in a cruel mood, and I think for mother’s 
sake we better stop.” 

“I’m not cruel. If you grasped the full value of 
your remarks about the reflection of your soul, you 
would not be taking the attitude on life, on your prom¬ 
ises, or about our baby that you do.” 

With an air of disgust, Hallaway crossed over to 
the window and gazed at the storm without, drawing 
silent comparison to the turmoil within. 

“No matter what your desire may be,” Gladys per¬ 
sisted, “you cannot correct this wrong by marrying 
me, because there is no longer love or respect between 
us.” 

“It would be of little use without love or respect. 
But, I wonder if you can recall what we concluded con¬ 
stituted real marriage, after all?” 

“I’m too nervous to try; what is it?” 

“That there can be no Immortal or Spiritual union 
of two souls, even with a legal ceremony, if there is 
doubt, distrust, or lack of respect. There is no doubt 
in genuine marriage. There is no cause for doubt be- 


GLAD RAY 


43 


tween two souls who truly respect the spiritual and 
moral rights of Divine Intelligence. WITHOUT RE¬ 
SPECT marriage becomes a farce. There is no man¬ 
made law which can CREATE respect, or convert a 
legal ceremony into a GODLY UNION. Rest as¬ 
sured there is love and respect a’plenty between us,— 
only you must cease nagging on the impossible for the 
present, and capitalize the words: LOVE, TRUST 
and TRUTH. In addition you must learn the correct 
conception of truth.” 

“It is a case of abiding by my convictions until I am 
convinced they are wrong.” 

“Then it is my duty to convince you.” 

“It is immaterial how hard you try to convince me, 
but don’t force my sick mother into believing I would 
wilfully bring this helpless baby into the world,” and 
Gladys hesitated long enough to kiss the little one’s 
tiny pink hand, “had I not trusted implicitly in your 
promises. Since her birth my eyes have opened to the 
fact that men, like you, who are not forced into seeing 
the crime of their ways by stronger women than I 
proved to be, eventually show themselves animated 
mixtures of polished cruelty and selfishness.” 

Raymond came closer to Gladys and took both her 
hands holding them reverently against his breast. 

“Little girl, again you have called me, figuratively, 
all the low cowardly names my patience can endure. 
Much of what you have said appears true to you, but 
you have, womanlike, passed judgment before trial.” 
Then he added more gently: “This is hardly becoming 


44 


GLAD RAY 


of you considering our former understanding and the 
extenuating circumstances.” 

“It seems to me you are trying to resurrect the old 
love, and destroy my principles,” she cried, attempting 
to break away. 

“You are confusing your principles with your preju¬ 
dices,” he stoutly maintained. 

“My, what?” she queried. 

“Like a great many well-meaning people, you mis¬ 
take your prejudices, resulting from traditional influ¬ 
ences, for principles. Genuine principles like genuine 
truth, is filled with love, mercy and divine protection; 
while your idea of principle and truth is of the Shy- 
lock variety, a merciless imitation of the real.” 

“Raymond, you are trying to play on my former 
love.” 

“That’s where you are mistaken, little girl, but I 
AM going to cause you mental suffering that all along 
I have earnestly tried to avoid. You have forced my 
decision, denouncing me as a coward before I even 
showed an inclination to desert the ship.” He still held 
her hands, and drew her closer. “I am going to con¬ 
vince you and your sick mother that my one wish in 
life is to marry you,—the noblest, dearest girl, I ever 
knew.” 

“It is too late for that part now,—the part about 
marrying me. Before baby came I humbled my pride 
so low that I even pleaded with you to have the cere¬ 
mony performed so she might be born in wedlock. 
Now, all that is over. My mother knows the horrible 
truth. Thank God, I have been spared further self- 


GLAD RAY 


45 


contempt. I can prove the stuff latent within me by 
leaving all hysterical tears and humiliating beseeching 
to the dead past.” 

“You do not mean, dear, you prefer the baby,—our 
baby, to be without its own father?” broke in Halla- 
way. 

“I mean the actual proofs that my convictions are 
wrong, will be the only influence sufficiently strong to 
change my attitude.” 

“And, I ? The baby’s father ?” he reiterated. 

“Such is the least of my worries, since, according 
to your own theories, the ALL-Merciful and REAL 
Father is a Just Judge, and does not look to the inno¬ 
cent babe to criticise character. He will bring proper 
punishment in His Own time to the offenders and not 
the offended.” 

“But, for the physical and moral protection that you 
cannot give the baby?” 

“I will do the best I can for her,” maintained 
Gladys emphatically. 

The look Gladys met in her lover’s eyes was one of 
sudden defiance, and hardly what she expected after 
trying to convince him that her conclusion was correct. 

“I am willing to lower my head in shame for my 
weakness,” protested Hallaway, “but I am not willing 
to be branded a traitor until proven such. Gladys, you 
are worming something out of the secrets of my soul 
which, from the hour I first learned to love you, I 
have endeavored to spare you. Now, by the Eternal, 
you shall hear it all,—all of the miserable truth. Yes, 


46 


GLAD RAY 


no matter how it hurts, you shall have the whole dis¬ 
gusting truth.” 

“My children! My children! I simply cannot en¬ 
dure this wrangling any longer,” interrupted the ex¬ 
hausted patient. “The idea of denying your baby its 
legal and moral rights! Such talk is shameful! Ray¬ 
mond,” she added, turning her face in his direction, 
“Tell me now—what—excuses you have—to—offer.” 

This effort proved too much for the sick woman 
and, without warning, she suddenly lost consciousness. 
For several moments Hallaway worked over the pros¬ 
trate form, while Gladys called frantically on the 
’phone for the family physician. At last Mrs. Long- 
worth responded to the emergency treatment, slowly 
opening her tired eyes and bravely making an effort 
to speak. 

“Just a little water;—my medicine, too. Feeling 
better—already. Guess—I’m good—for several— 
days yet.” 

“Of course you are, mother, dear; you are going to 
live and be your own well self again.” 

All the while Gladys recognized her mother’s 
chances for recovery were slight. Mrs. Longworth’s 
sudden turn for the worse caused no little uneasiness 
in the minds of both young people. After consider¬ 
able persuasion, they won her consent to wait until the 
following day to talk further concerning Hallaway’s 
reasons for not marrying Gladys. 


CHAPTER IV. 


T HE morning of the second day the parents sat 
close to the bed, while the baby lay sleeping near 
its grandmother, at the latter’s request. Slowly Halla- 
way arose, and with head bent forward and hands 
clasped behind him, began to pace between the fire¬ 
place and the window. 

“Raymond, my boy, are you ready to answer my 
question of yesterday?” Mrs. Longworth’s white face 
against the pillow looked strangely clouded as the re¬ 
flection from the burning log cast shadows over the 
wrinkled skin. This seemed to the young medical 
student to be the moment in which to divulge the 
truth. He faced his sweetheart and her mother with 
unflinching resolve as he began:— 

“Mrs. Longworth, this whole affair has been made 
blacker by my beastly selfishness.” 

He looked unshrinkingly into the eyes of the older 
woman as he spoke, and felt keenly the scrutinizing 
gaze of Gladys. Intuitively he understood his sweet¬ 
heart’s doubts and knew she thought he intended 
to trump up some lie to appease the wrath of her 
mother. He also knew for once he would send the 
hideous truth so far into the depths of her very soul 
that she would comprehend the sorrow of his lonely 
life, and have a better conception of his temptations. 
Raymond loved Gladys with a kind of love which, 

47 


48 


GLAD RAY 


though irritated at times by conditions, is lenient in its 
judgment, and lasting. He loved her weaknesses as 
well as her virtues. Her present attitude startled him. 
He thought when the opportunity came she would be 
capable of applying many of the theories which each 
had previously considered proper. Hallaway was too 
big a man, however, to care less for the mother of his 
child. He felt the hurt more deeply than Gladys 
realized, because of additional responsibilities and a 
certain sensitiveness acquired after overcoming his 
vices. 

What he intended saying might arouse his sweet¬ 
heart’s utmost hatred. It might make her even more 
determined to obliterate him from her life. It could 
create a certain type of pity, and he despised pity. It 
was possible—just possible—to influence Gladys into 
waiting, as he desired, to be married at the earliest 
moment. Hallaway was forced into taking the chance. 
There was no choice left. All these thoughts whirled 
through his brain as he hesitated an instant. 

“I was unusually selfish and jealous in my woo¬ 
ing,” he continued. “All men are selfish, and most 
men are jealous, when they desire one certain woman 
for their very own. Men seldom love as women 
love; if they do, part of the primitive, fighting, pro¬ 
tecting instinct is absent. It takes these attributes to 
make real men. The average man forgets all else, 
when he woos in his passionate blindness, but the 
divine glory and exquisite bliss of embracing a charm¬ 
ingly sweet woman who will eventually belong to 
him.” 


GLAD RAY 


49 


The epigrammatical statements were at least com¬ 
manding attention and Hallaway felt he had made the 
right beginning. 

“The great force of love in man,” he continued, 
“is influenced entirely by the power of firm but 
charming resistance, or, the abandon with which a 
woman exerts her mental and physical attractions.” 

Gladys thought she perceived the underlying motive 
in her lover’s last remark. 

“Men,” he added earnestly, with his closed right 
fist firmly set in the palm of his left hand, “do not 
deliberately go about ruining women; neither do they 
harm them simply to blight the happiness or pollute 
the purity of the gentler sex; but the great physical 
strength and robust health of the male is the basis of 
that mysterious force which causes men to be not un¬ 
like the male of any species,—gormandizers of pas¬ 
sion. This characteristic in men is tempered and in¬ 
fluenced by habit, environment, education, temptation, 
early motherly tact and instruction.” 

Both women were intensely interested. Mrs. Long- 
worth silently and feebly motioned Gladys to a small 
rocker. Hallaway noticed the respectful silence, and 
though he did not intend to cast blame on the mother 
of his baby, he was determined to impress the two 
women with his intention of doing the right thing at 
the proper time and he had felt obliged to preface his 
confession. 

“Where mothers,” he went on, “are afflicted with 
unsympathetic ignorance, loathsome false pride, and 


50 


GLAD RAY 


are afraid to be square and frank with the natural 
instincts of their sons and permit them to he instructed 
by their companions or sad experiences,—then the 
most wonderful privilege of motherhood has been 
neglected. That sublime message portraying perfect 
health, cleanliness, self-respect, natural development, 
normal offspring, and true Christian comradeship can 
only be delivered properly by the understanding moth¬ 
er. The mother who fails through false ideals has a 
hideous conception of her responsibility to future gen¬ 
erations, and she frequently lives to see her son, or her 
son’s son, in a pathetic state of physical suffering or 
degeneracy.” 

The two women were astonished. Hallaway was 
presenting a view of life, the reality of which had not 
occurred to either of them. Gladys did not yet com¬ 
prehend the reason for his statements, but she realized 
their moral value. Mrs. Longworth almost forgot the 
sharp pains in her lungs, and her faculties were keenly 
alert, though the effort was visibly taxing. 

“Men,” Hallaway went on, speaking in convincing 
tones, “forget all conventionalities when lovable 
women permit familiarities. Women either by nature 
or cultivation are natural hypnotists. This is true even 
among the ignorant or the female of the animal species, 
—the female alures; it must be so.” 

“But in our case,—” Gladys was commencing to 
wince under the strain of the truth. 

“Pardon me, my darling, you had your full say yes¬ 
terday, pronouncing judgment on me before trial. 


GLAD RAY 


51 


Surely you will give me even a late opportunity for 
defense.” 

Gladys closed her lips firmly, and lowered her eyes. 
It was evident Hallaway’s remarks were having an 
effect that gave him courage to continue. 

“Men whose mentalities are regularly stimulated by 
intoxicating drinks, are victimized through liquor into 
believing they are masters of crucial situations; 
whereas, they are generally slaves of egotism and in¬ 
variably misinterpret a low standard of sex attraction 
for sincere and lasting effection.” 

Mrs. Longworth asked to have another pillow placed 
under her head that she might have a better view of 
Raymond and hear more distinctly. This was Ray¬ 
mond’s one chance to convince the woman he loved 
that he was not all bad, and he did not intend to miss 
the opportunity. Once more he resumed the thread of 
discourse. 

“Women are natural lovers of conquest,—the type 
of possession enjoyed by most women and apparently 
cunningly disdained by others. They let men go on 
playing the part of sentimental fools, or making the 
most ardent love filled with intense passion,—NOT 
because women are truly responsive, but because they 
are ARTISTS OF PRETENSE and vultures of 
vanity, encouraging men by pretending that they re¬ 
ciprocate. Women do not play the love game to the 
danger point because they truly desire the seriousness 
of the burning exaltation—but because they selfishly 
adore the sensation of conquering victims; because 
they rejoice in their victory over other women; and 


52 


GLAD RAY 


because they glory in observing men at love’s maddest 
pinnacle. Women deny this with fascinating modesty, 
—the convincing kind they use on men when they are 
in the game to win. Indeed, women often deny this 
with prettily affected horror; but pitiless and accurate 
history and hundreds of broken lives have proven the 
truth of my words. Women take an unseemly pleas¬ 
ure in the tantalizing methods they exert when cool¬ 
ing impassioned men into submissiveness with a croon¬ 
ing, artful, babyish deception and resistance clothed in 
apparent trust.” 

“Raymond, I never used such methods with you,—” 

“I am not referring to you in particular, my dear, 
but to women in general. To be still more frank, I 
am referring to the days of my very early manhood 
when I drank excessively, and thank God, you did not 
know me.” 

“Possibly you would have had a kinder impression 
of women, and life would have been vastly different 
had I met you then,” sighed the younger woman. 

“Perhaps,” came the evasive answer. “My poor 
little girl! It was my wish to spare you all this.” 
For a moment he closed his eyes as though to blind 
from memory life’s merciless pictures. A deep sigh 
escaped his lips. “When I was drinking heavily at 
twenty-one and sowing an abundance of wild oats, I 
was guilty of some mighty imprudent acts.” 

Gladys shuddered visibly, and gave the burning log 
a poke which started the flames and sparks to snapping 
brightly. She yearned to hear of Raymond’s past, yet 


GLAD RAY 


53 


dreaded to listen for fear of learning something that 
might make her wretched for life. 

“One night a number of my companions and I at¬ 
tended a week-end dance at a country Tavern, owned 
by a Frank Allen and his wife, where we were all 
rather well known, and where there resided several 
attractive, rosy-cheeked country girls,—daughters or 
nieces of the owners. During the evening I became 
sentimentally intoxicated. I caressed everything from 
a post to one of the pretty daughters. Frank Allen 
and his wife knew my mother was a gentle, refined 
woman, and my father a prosperous druggist and re¬ 
spected citizen. They also knew me to be a fairly 
decent fellow when sober, so what I did was consid¬ 
ered a dark’ for the time being. The fair one of my 
choice, Stella Allen, was a graceful dancer, and a 
charming waitress. She was especially partial to me 
and before the evening was half over I was her grov¬ 
eling slave. 

“How any lovable girl could caress and encourage a 
young chap so uncertain of his desires as I was that 
night has always remained a mystery. However, it 
may be attributed to the fact that I never staggered 
when drunk, used polished language and gave the im¬ 
pression of having perfect control of my faculties. In 
reality it was the alcohol stimulating my debauched 
nerves, and the slightest encouragement was all I 
needed to act the fool. The following noon I found 
myself attending the final ceremonies of my wedding 
breakfast. My bride was seated at my left, attired in 
her best gown, the minister across from me, and 


54 


GLAD RAY 


Stella’s mother and father at the head and foot of the 
table. There were any number of hurriedly summoned 
relatives, as well as the county clerk who had ridden— 
I was later informed—at my insistence, post-haste to 
the Tavern with the marriage license. My companions 
also remained for the wedding feast and looked a 
shame-faced lot.” 

Mrs. Longworth never moved her eyes from Halla- 
way’s and her expression revealed little more than 
the ravages of illness. Gladys had lost her arrogance 
and her eyes glistened with unshed tears while her face 
was a picture of pity. 

“I whispered to Stella inquiring the nature of the 
celebration. She laughed and asked me jokingly if it 
were my intention to apply for a divorce so early. She 
also said the black coffee was causing a change in my 
sentiments, and it was most unbecoming to forget my 
wife so soon. Then and there I realized I had made a 
fool of myself, all through association with the Demon 
Rum. As quietly as possible one of my companions 
led me into another room where he told me the truth, 
explaining I had insisted on an immediate marriage: 
had vowed in eloquent phrases, and before everyone, 
my eternal love for Stella Allen; and had deliberately 
arranged all details for the wedding with as much 
authority and saneness as anyone possibly could. 
There had not been a doubt in the minds of the Allen 
family that my one desire in life had just been 
realized.” 

Again Hallaway walked slowly across the room, 


GLAD RAY 


55 


looked out into the dreary storm, and returned to his 
point of vantage. 

“Stella was respectable and as intelligent as girls of 
that class go. She tried to educate herself. I’ve often 
thought,” Hallaway reminisced a bit, “if the dreadful 
accident which happened months later, had not oc¬ 
curred she would have taken up some special study 
and succeeded. 

“I was so ashamed to face my parents again that I 
remained at the Tavern. My chums were loyal to me 
and kept my secret. In my heart I knew Stella Allen 
was vastly better morally and spiritually than I with 
my proud family, and a brain polluted with alcohol. 
I felt a certain lack of self-respect, but liquor had weak¬ 
ened my will and I was powerless. There came over 
me a drunkard’s type of humiliation when I stopped to 
consider Stella was giving all she possessed while I 
was contributing only a porter’s labors for her father 
in return. I drank heavily to forget my extreme deg¬ 
radation ; and thought my dreams of being a physi¬ 
cian were forever lost. The only method apparently 
open to me was the coward’s way of avoiding realities, 
—liquor. 

“I remained at the Tavern for almost a year. My 
lonely, heart-broken mother died, and about the same 
time my father paid me an unexpected visit. Father 
appreciated the honest effort poor Stella was making 
to influence me to return to my studies and make a 
man of myself. He liked the girl’s sincerity and sim¬ 
plicity. They tried to pull me out of the mire. She 
used to say she’d willingly sacrifice her future if I 


56 


GLAD RAY 


would only convince my father there was still some 
material worth while in my make-up. Providence is 
a wonderful molder of situations. Stella seemingly 
entered a living death to awaken ambition and self- 
respect in me; at least that is the pitifully impressive 
lesson I received from the shock after her horrible 
experience. 

“We had been married less than two years when 
my wife began teaching dancing to help pay for our 
clothes, room and board, which my own indifferent 
labors failed to do. Stella had a large signboard made, 
stating the days for private lessons, the evenings for 
classes, and the prices. This was fastened to an upper 
window frame of the old building used as a residence. 
One July morning there was an unusually severe rain. 
As soon as the storm ceased, Stella went outside under 
the window to rescue some of her plants. I was stand¬ 
ing beside her watching her caress a forlorn looking 
geranium as tenderly as she would a sick child. Sud¬ 
denly I heard a crackling sound and stepped out a bit, 
just in time to miss the crash myself,—but turning 
quickly I saw the signboard fall squarely against my 
wife’s skull.” 

“Raymond! Raymond!” Finding she could no 
longer hide her tears, Gladys crossed over and knelt by 
her mother’s bed where she hid her face in the soft 
folds of the baby’s pink coverlet. The little one moved 
slightly. Gladys, thankful for an excuse to be occu¬ 
pied, took the baby in her arms and returned to the 
comfortable rocker. The sacred picture of mother and 


GLAD RAY 


57 


child did not fail to attract Hallaway’s eye for the 
beautiful. 

‘‘From the blow my wife received, insanity followed. 
The law,” he ejaculated, “would not grant me a di¬ 
vorce from an insane woman. I could not bring my¬ 
self to take such a step, even if it were possible while 
she lies at the threshold of death. It is impossible to 
forget that Stella served me like a faithful slave with¬ 
out one vestige of love in return. It was she who con¬ 
vinced me of my errors. It was she who showed me 
that I truly possessed the Intelligence to create a com¬ 
pletely new condition of affairs, if I actually and truly 
desired to change. It was she who pointed out that 
I did not need medicine, rum or a body guard to assist 
me in proving my manhood. All I actually required was 
to use my own forces which lay dormant within me, 
and which I had weakly or deliberately ignored. Li¬ 
quor has never passed my lips since, though it would 
be untrue to say I have been devoid of temptation.” 

Hallaway looked directly at the mother of his baby 
as he spoke. 

“I won’t touch it, simply because I am not going to 
permit someone or something, especially alcohol, to be 
my master. It is a terrible, haunting memory I have 
of Stella.” 

The name of his unfortunate wife was uttered in his 
characteristically deep, gentle voice, but with added 
reverence in the tone. Raymond Hallaway made no 
pretense of loving his legal wife, but in his heart there 
was a profound respect based on a woman’s sacrifice 
and moral courage. 


58 


GLAD RAY 


Poor Gladys gazed into space. As she held the baby 
pressed against her breast, visions of dismal failures, 
mocking horrors, constant temptations, and renewed 
efforts through which her lover must have passed to 
have lifted himself out of the gutter to what he was 
today, rushed in maddening confusion before her. 
Without changing her almost stupified expression, her 
lips moved audibly. 

'‘And all this while I doubted your intention to keep 
your word because you evaded the truth, or rather 
because you refused to tell me about this terrible affair. 
I understand now, dear. It certainly has been a nerve- 
racking ordeal. What a comfort to know that since 
then you have been sufficiently strong to be all man.'’ 

“In no step have I had anything but the most honest 
of intentions. As dark as it may look before others, 
it is the legal aspect of the situation in which I have 
been deficient. Yes, little girl, I needed just such an 
awful awakening to have the courage to start anew. I 
am afraid nothing less would have shocked me into a 
full knowledge that I was in a mighty bad way. 

“You see, coming back to my reference to mother¬ 
hood, mother never talked to me,—she left it to father, 
and he rather thought experience would teach me all 
that is necessary for a boy to know about the moral 
problems in life. They meant well, but I passed 
through the depths of degradation on their good in¬ 
tentions. One woman became insane and her family 
know neither peace nor joy today. To them the sun¬ 
shine of life set forever when Stella was taken to the 
asylum. So much for the far-reaching calamity caused 


GLAD RAY 


59 


by mistaken modesty of motherhood. There is no 
greater privilege than that of being a consistent moth¬ 
er, and no more fearful tragedy than being made a 
mother when devoid of tact and understanding.’’ 

Gladys slowly nodded her head, repeating her lover’s 
last remark in a manner convincing him of the seri¬ 
ousness with which she had grasped the responsibility 
of motherhood: “There is no greater privilege than 
that of being a CONSISTENT mother, and no more 
fearful tragedy than being made a mother when 
devoid of tact and understanding.” 

“Poor mother!” Hallaway resumed. “She loved 
me with a blind devotion, and directed me as hundreds 
of other loving, well-intentioned mothers direct their 
sons,—with a false modesty which eventually ends in 
tragedy. Like most mothers, she possessed a mistaken 
idea of indulgence.” 

“Did Stella realize her intense suffering?” came the 
anxious query, interupting the trend of Hallaway’s 
narrative. 

“No, dear; for days and nights following a serious 
operation, she lay like one dumb with her head wrapped 
in heavy bandages. When she was able to speak again 
and the paralysis had partly left her, she was destitute 
of memory. At first we attributed this to the pneu¬ 
monia and paralysis which followed the operation, but 
after a time the surgeon sent for a specialist who told 
us the awful truth. Since then, at intervals, the Allen 
family have had three operations performed on her. 
Of late, Stella has become gradually weaker, and the 
house physician at the Insane Hospital recently in- 


60 


GLAD RAY 


formed us that tuberculosis has developed, and it is but 
a matter of a very short time until she will pass unto 
the blessed reward she so richly deserves.” 

Mrs. Longworth closed her heavy eyelids during the 
final part of Raymond’s discourse, and her face was 
drawn with pain. Her emaciated fingers were clinched 
as though summoning the last vestige of self-control. 

“Raymond,” faintly whispered the weary patient. 

Hallaway crossed over to Mrs. Longworth’s side and 
knelt on one knee, that he might better hear her weak 
voice. 

“My boy, the one legal wife is safe from all worldly 
harm and where she—will—enter—her—deserved— 
rest; but your baby and my little girl—have both—just 
launched upon perpetual misery—unless—unless—.” 
Here she stopped short as though wondering how to 
express the warning in her heart, the while a sigh 
escaped her parched lips, and one lone tear forced its 
way down the sad face. “Their awakening will come 
—after I am gone. The world will scoff—and scorn. 
Guard these two—lonely souls—with your every move 
—and highest sense of honor.” The struggle to speak 
proved too much, and her thin body shook with sobs. 

Gladys placed the sleeping infant on the far side of 
the bed beside its grandmother and knelt on the near 
side close to Raymond, that she, too, might hear every 
word. All three were too overcome by the revelations 
to express more than their understanding in that most 
pathetic silence. 

‘'Little girl,—wife of my heart,” Hallaway looked 
into the large blue eyes of the woman he loved, “I have 


GLAD RAY 


61 


never broken a promise to you, though I have been 
secretive concerning this vital subject,—and now that 
you know the truth, there never need be a shadow of 
doubt. Will you remain faithful to me, and believe in 
me, as I will in you, not only for the sake of our child, 
but the divine love we bear each other? Dearest, do 
you give me the same deep love that I give you? Do 
you ?” 

Gladys bowed her head in the affirmative. Words 
seemed beyond her. 

“Bury these notions about independence, and not 
marrying me because I failed to comply with your de¬ 
mands before the baby came, and promise to become 
my wife. I will do all in my power to make up for 
every hour of sorrow with two of joy. You will then 
be lawfully mine as I feel you are now, spiritually, 
before Divine Justice, and the All-Considerate God. I 
swear this ! Gladys, I swear it!” Raymond Hallaway 
lifted his right hand then laid it on the forehead of 
his tiny daughter. 

Both women remained silent, though their features 
revealed that earnest contemplation which a mental 
battle makes visible. The older woman was resignedly 
facing the last great problem of her life and yearned 
to know that her child would remain firm and true to 
her dying wishes. Gladys was crushing a wounded 
pride and trying to meet bitter reality with optimism 
and carry out her mother’s desires. She knew the 
most unworthy error had been committed, and her baby 
would become the greatest sufferer of all. She also 


62 


GLAD RAY 


realized that to deprive her child of its own father, if 
he proved worthy of the waiting, would only add a 
more ghastly mistake for her already miserable con¬ 
science to expiate. 

In thinking it all over, Gladys bravely acknowledged 
that it was her natural allurements, her suggestive sex- 
hypnotism, and her very weaknesses that had drawn 
her into the present trouble ; just as much as Halla- 
way’s intensely human impulses and baser selfishness 
which is prevalent with most men, and particularly 
augmented in her lover’s character. 

“I am not the brute I have appeared to be; neither 
do I blame others for my failures, nor excuse myself 
for my selfishness. There is plenty of heart in this 
healthy body of mine, and I love you,” Hallaway added 
vehemently, as he gazed searchingly into Gladys’ up¬ 
turned face, and rested his left hand impressively on 
the silken waves of her blonde hair. “I love you,—you 
wonderful, beautiful woman, far more than I can find 
words to express. It is this intense love, the madden¬ 
ing desire to possess you for my own, that has been the 
cause of all our troubles. Tell me once more, beloved,” 
he gently tilted her head backward, as he turned her 
fair face in his direction, “will you promise to marry 
me, if I am all I should be, just as soon as I am free?” 

“With that proviso, and our love for each other, I 
can scarcely see how it is possible to refuse.” She 
spoke low and earnestly, with the slightest evidence of 
embarrassment. 


GLAD RAY 


63 


“Thank you, Gladys,—but you have not yet told me 
whether you love me as before.” 

“In a way I love you more because I know your 
real self, and what you have conquered. It is no little 
mental satisfaction to be able to share your Garden of 
Gethsemane. It was I who really forced you deeper 
into your present trials by my lack of womanly resist¬ 
ance,—” 

“No, no,—” Hallaway endeavored to save Gladys 
from her personal condemnation. 

“Oh, yes, it was. It was my very weaknesses,—the 
kind, which at the time, seemed more wonderful to 
exercise than womanly to resist, that led you on ; but,” 
she burst forth impulsively, “ah, Raymond, I adored 
you then, as I do now! Can’t you see that I love you ? 
1 love you ! I love you !” 

Raymond crushed the yielding form to his, and cov¬ 
ered the beautiful face with kisses. 

“My darling! My own, precious darling! You 
have made me so happy!" 

Mrs. Longworth smiled a silent benediction. She 
was convinced all would end well with Gladys and the 
baby. With her blessing, there fell a few tears from 
the weary eyes 

For three days and two nights Gladys remained by 
her mother’s bedside, tenderly nursing the suffering 
patient and carrying out the instructions of Doctor 
Blaine, the Longworth family physician. He came 
twice a day, but with each visit his attitude became 
more serious. He complimented Gladys on her obey¬ 
ing his orders but gave her no definite encouragement 


64 


GLAD RAY 


that the patient would recover. During this period 
Hallaway was preparing for the first of his final sen¬ 
ior examinations to be held in April. He kept steadily 
to his room. The morning of the third day dawned 
with a severe March blizzard. Dora had built a cheer¬ 
ful log fire, but every moan of the wind made poor 
Gladys feel an ill omen, as she watched her mother's 
labored breathing. 

“Mother Mother, dear!” She spoke soothingly as 
Mrs. Longworth turned her pale face in the direction 
of the burning logs. “Can you see the wonderful pic¬ 
tures in the red embers?” 

“It hurts my eyes, child; but—I love—the minor 
music in the sounds—of the wind—up the chimney. I 
enjoy the warmth of the glow—from the fire—against 
my cheek.” Her voice was so faint that Gladys had to 
bend low to catch every word. As Mrs. Longworth 
had no contagious disease, she had requested them to 
bring the little one to her room for a few minutes night 
and morning. In obedience to her wishes, Hallaway 
entered with the baby and stood silently at one side, 
looking upon the pathetic figure of the sorrowing girl- 
mother and the dying woman. Doctor Blaine arrived 
and drew a chair close to the bed. The kind old man 
felt the faltering pulse and instantly perceived the 
change for the worse. Gladys leaned over the bed 
from the opposite side and peered into the physician’s 
face, anxious for one ray of hope. 

The patient moved slightly and smiled sadly, as she 
whispered: “The baby! Where is the baby?” 


GLAD RAY 


65 


“Right here, mother, darling. Raymond is holding 
her.” 

“Oh, yes,” and the dim eyes tried to locate Ray¬ 
mond, but closed for want of strength. 

For a few moments there was suspense and silence; 
then the patient made a final effort to greet the 
Doctor. 

“I’m glad you have come; beautiful morning; so 
peaceful.” Over the sharp features came an expres¬ 
sion of rest and content. “So peaceful,” she repeated. 

Instinctively the two lovers thought of the cold 
March blizzard without. The good man who was 
watching with them waited humbly for the Greater 
Physician to call a soul HOME. Doctor Blaine un¬ 
derstood that his patient felt no pain. To her, the 
morning was the beginning of a beautiful dawn, 
and she was peacefully waiting to start on her 
journey. A few more anxious moments and the 
physician tenderly closed the half open lids and 
laid the wasted hands across her breast. 

Gladys did not yet comprehend that her mother had 
quietly gone out of this life without the bitter pain of 
parting. She took the unresponsive hand nearest her 
and caressed and kissed it, the while bathing its marble 
whiteness with her tears. As Doctor Blaine rose, too 
filled with supressed emotion to speak, Gladys looked 
up with the countenance of a trusting child, inquiry un¬ 
spoken on her lips. She needed no further informa¬ 
tion than the pity and regret so visible on the phy¬ 
sician’s honest face. Hallaway moved nearer to the 


66 


GLAD RAY 


bed, and with his free arm, drew the weeping young 
mother to his side. 

“Let me help you, beloved,” he whispered tenderly. 
“Oh, Raymond, my mother,—my mother is gone.” 
And the heart-broken girl rested her throbbing head 
against her lover’s breast. 


CHAPTER V 


HE Longworth home seemed cold and still after 



-I- the funeral. The only sounds for two long 
months, were those of faithful Dora at her customary 
duties and the occasional disturbances of the baby. 
There was no hiding the little one; its cries and coos 
would echo through the large-old-fashioned rooms, and 
in a very short time “Madam Grundy” was busy. With 
one excuse after another, as they found out actual 
conditions, the students had chosen quarters elsewhere. 
Fewer friends called. The unwise decision to make 
Louisville the home for the baby began slowly to dawn 
on Gladys. 

Without roomers, the young mother was destitute 
save half of Hallaway’s small allowance. She adver¬ 
tised her rooms for rent, but only one or two came 
to investigate. It was early in May, near the closing 
of school and most of the students were either going 
home or were satisfied with their lodgings. For a time 
Hallaway obtained work as an assistant bookkeeper in 
one of the banks which was open evenings, but this 
was discontinued because his studies suffered. Dur¬ 
ing the last few weeks of Hallaway’s senior year he 
became almost a nervous wreck from over-study and 
worry. Every little cry of the baby irritated him. 


67 


68 


GLAD RAY 


His demonstrations of affection toward Gladys almost 
ceased. His evenings were divided between the col¬ 
lege research library and the Longworth private study. 

Limited finances was another cause of worry. Dora, 
the servant, the upkeep of the Longworth home, and 
Hallaway’s newly acquired family had to be main¬ 
tained out of his senior year’s expense money. Gladys 
felt she was a decided burden. She reasoned it would 
be possible to sell the old home and by investing the 
money wisely provide a small income to tide over the 
three of them until Hallaway could become estab¬ 
lished in a lucrative practice. 

With this idea, Gladys visited her mother’s lawyer. 
Judge Thomas Breckenridge, and explained the situa¬ 
tion. He had heard of her trouble and had used his 
influence quietly in her behalf. Slowly and carefully 
the Judge went over all the family papers with Gladys, 
and in his tactful, gentle way made the truth plain 
to her. It seems that several years after the death 
of the Colonel, Mrs. Longworth had found it neces¬ 
sary to place a second mortgage on the property to 
keep up social appearances for her daughter’s sake 
and to give the latter a finishing education in music 
and painting. Judge Breckenridge had purchased the 
second mortgage from the Merchant’s Bank and never 
required the widow of his former friend to pay either 
interest or principal on the same. He also managed to 
pay the interest on the first mortgage, but did not 
feel it was part of friendship’s privilege to pay off the 
principal of the first mortgage which the bank was 
demanding. As Colonel Longworth’s widow knew 


GLAD RAY 


69 


little about business, she left her financial matters 
almost entirely to her lawyer. He, in turn, had learned 
with years of family association to care for Mrs. Long- 
worth with deep consideration. It was his secret de¬ 
light to know, even when she refused his tender ad¬ 
vances, that he had made it possible for her to remain 
in the old mansion. When the Bank pressed their 
claim for the principal on the first mortgage, the 
Judge had used his influence before the trustees to 
extend payment for a few months longer. The widow 
never asked concerning the mortgages, but the bank 
ran its affairs on a business basis, and when the ex¬ 
tended term had expired and still the first mortgage 
remained unpaid, they foreclosed. At that critical 
period the Judge asked the trustees once more not to 
notify Mrs. Longworth, as she was dangerously ill. 
After her death, the bank still continued to be liberality 
personified, owing to the insistence of the family law¬ 
yer, and permitted Gladys Longworth to remain in the 
old home until such time as Judge Breckenridge would 
inform them that he had found suitable apartments for 
his young client. After he was informed concerning 
the humiliation of Colonel and Mrs. Longworth’s only 
child he was hesitating as to the next move when 
Gladys paid him this unexpected visit. Frequently 
during the last two years of Mrs. Longworth’s life, 
Judge Breckenridge had wondered if she ever gave a 
thought to the ways and means by which she and 
Gladys had been able to retain the Longworth man¬ 
sion. It appeared not,—as that proud Southern 
woman held her head high, asked few questions or 


70 


GLAD RAY 


favors, but accepted the condition of affairs as her aL 
lotted portion. 

This attitude on the widow’s part was not conceit 
or arrogance, but rather a trait born of reticence and 
simplicity which had been encouraged by both her late 
husband and the family advisor. Judge Breckenridge, 
like the Colonel, had secretly lifted all burdens, and 
never permitted Mrs. Longworth to know by act or 
word to what extent she was under obligation to him. 
This sweet delusion was the only reward the Judge 
desired as a substitute for the love he truly craved and 
which the widow denied him. Gladys gradually be¬ 
came aware of the silent charity. The generosity of 
the man before her had been so great as to hold his 
friendship above the price of a lawyer’s fee or a 
woman’s indifference. He had made it possible for 
both her mother and herself to have a roof over their 
heads. 

“Can it be that the home I thought was mine, is 
actually gone ?” Gladys sighed. 

“Dear little girl, I wish it were otherwise,” he re¬ 
plied. “For several months I have known of this 
calamity but it was useless to warn your mother as I 
knew she had no means other than the small sum ob¬ 
tained from renting rooms. She was a proud woman 
and if I had told her that I paid off the second mortg¬ 
age and the interest on both first and second, she would 
have ended a lifelong friendship. As to informing 
you,—well, I neglected it for several good reasons.” 

“Surely you don’t treat all your clients in the un- 


GLAD RAY 


7 1 


selfish manner you have dealt with mother and me, do 
you ?” 

“I try to be considerate, my child; but I wouldn't 
freely and secretly give up several thousand dollars for 
the benefit of any other woman, but—but your 
mother." 

Gladys looked confused. The Judge laid his thin 
rough hand over hers as he continued speaking. 

“It may appear strange to you that a man of my 
years and position never married.” He spoke as one 
looking back over wasted dreams. “I desired to, and 
intended doing so when your father and I were young 
chums. I never was a rushing wooer but I always 
have been sincere and loyal to my one love. Your 
father was a handsome, dashing lover, and asked the 
girl of our mutual admiration to marry him before it 
dawned on me that I’d ever have the temerity to do so, 
and—and—he won out." 

“Did you love mother?" Gladys looked bewitch- 
ingly like Mrs. Longworth at the same age. 

“I’ve always loved her, Gladys. Of course after 
they were married, I buried my love in dry books," and 
he motioned to the wall cases full of the best authori¬ 
ties on law. “I was your father’s attorney and friend 
as long as he lived, and never by word or look did I 
cause his heart to ache by one reference to the mighty 
weight on my own. 

“After your father’s death I carried out his wishes 
to the letter; and your mother and I spent many a 
splendid evening together. She was a good reader and 


72 


GLAD RAY 


chose interesting literature; and just to be in her com¬ 
pany I’d read books with her.” 

“I never heard mother refer to you except in a busi¬ 
ness way, but once,” interposed Gladys. “Now that 
you have spoken of your personal regard for her, I 
particularly recall the incident. It was on a warm 
summer’s evening. The gentle southern breezes were 
fanning the silver in her hair. She looked beautiful 
in the moonlight, as we rocked slowly back and forth, 
side by side in the hammock under the old elm. The 
branches spread gracefully, and the moon shone 
through directly on her lovely face as she talked. We 
had talked on many topics,—possibilities and probabili¬ 
ties of the future. Mother took my face between her 
two soft hands, and said: ‘My little girl will always 
have one friend, for his friendship has been profoundly 
loyal to me. No more sincere man lives than Tom 
Breckenridge.’ Later, I recall, she said your honesty 
as a lawyer had kept you from both fame and wealth, 
—but so long as she lived there would be no one but 
you as our advisor.” 

Judge Breckenridge listened with rapt attention as 
he heard from the lips of her living child the words of 
his dear dead friend. 

“Why were you not at the funeral if—if you loved 
mother all these years?” 

“Simple reason; don’t believe in curiosity-gathering 
services. I never attended a funeral since I was old 
enough to have serious thoughts. To me, death is 
only a peaceful means of spiritual ascension. With 
the possible exception of one’s immediate family (who 


GLAD RAY 


73 


naturally take the last farewell much as they would 
were the loved one living and going to some distant 
land for a number of years), friends and acquaintances 
should pay their acts of kindness and tributes of respect 
while one is living. 

“What is the end of life to you?” Gladys asked 
interestedlv. 

j 

“There is no end, child. As we live here, or better 
still, as we leave off here, so we begin THERE.” 

“That is the way I feel about it. No wonder your 
days are filled with unselfishness. You must be won¬ 
derfully comforted to know all these things, and live 
with such an ideal during the autumn of your own 
life. You feel that your spirit goes right along un¬ 
folding according to the way you lived here.” 

“Exactly, dear. I didn’t attend your father’s funeral 
either, my child. I believed he had entered upon his 
deserved reward and I complimented his memory by 
being a true friend to his widow." For a few moments 
there was silence as each meditated on the sacred mem¬ 
ories of the past. 

“By the way,” the Judge continued, “here is a re¬ 
ceipt for two monument headmarks which I had placed 
over the graves of your parents, made out as pur¬ 
chased by you. Tombstones are much like numbers 
on the houses in which we live; if the numbers were 
not over the doors our friends might not find us 
quite so easily.” 

Tears gathered in Gladys’ eyes, and her voice choked 
with emotion. Again Tom Breckenridge had shown 
his devotion to the dead, and unselfishness to the 


74 


GLAD RAY 


living. Gladys leaned over and touched her lips re¬ 
spectfully to the white hand which rested carelessly on 
his desk close to hers. 

“Will you tell me why, or should I refrain from 
asking—why did you not tell mother of your love 
after father’s death?” 

He smiled at her inquisitiveness, and after a mo¬ 
ment’s contemplation, replied: 

“About eight years ago, I started to explain to 
your mother how I always had loved her, and how 
pure and true my love had been. She suddenly arose 
and leaning toward me whispered as though some un¬ 
seen spirit might be listening: ‘Do not say any more ; 
it will spoil our wonderful friendship of so many 
years. We chose different paths long, long ago. I 
need you for my friend and legal advisor. Is that 
enough?’ Then she quietly walked out of my office.” 

“And you calmly did as she requested?” Gladys 
asked quizzically. 

“There is a vast difference in the persistency and 
impulsiveness of youth and—the calm resignation of 
maturer years,” responded the Judge, reminiscently. 
“There is no doubt, had I been several years younger 
I might have clasped her delicate hands in mine and 
forced her to listen to reason. But some way,” he 
went on with a sigh, “I just continued to worship her 
from afar; trying to believe it might have been a 
promise she made to your father, and—it might have 
been.” 

His features reddened and for an instant the cords 
of his neck stood out conspicuously. He was making 


GLAD RAY 


7 5 


a valiant struggle to hide regret and appear contented. 
Gladys forgot her own troubles and the object of her 
visit. 

“Well, little girl/’ and he assumed a businesslike at¬ 
titude, “what are your plans for the future?” 

Womanlike, and bound to hear all there was con¬ 
cerning her mother’s love affair, Gladys ventured 
sweetly: “Would you care to have some token of 
mother’s? I might give you a tiny ivory clock she 
wound nightly for many years. You could use it here 
on your desk.” 

“Will you? Indeed I’d appreciate it,” he answered 
enthusiastically. “I also have two small articles in the 
safe which she left on the occasion of her last visit 
to my office. As your mother never came to see me 
here again, and never asked for them when I went to 
call on her,—I locked the little trinkets up as mementos 
most sacred to me.” 

With that the Judge opened the heavy iron doors 
of his private vault, and drew forth a black enameled 
tin box, out of which, from the folds of faded tissue 
paper, he displayed a faintly scented lace handkerchief 
and one fingerless white silk lace glove. Gladys 
touched them reverently. They had been her mother’s. 

“She knows they are mine now, no doubt; and I 
hardly believe she would desire to retain me strictly 
as her lawyer, do you?” 

Gladys couldn’t answer just then, being somewhat 
overcome with the confession of this buried love. She 
had much to unburden to the Judge but determined not 
to spoil this visit. 


76 


GLAD RAY 


“Don’t think me a fool, Gladys, but no man or 
woman is ever too old to love. Some way the love of 
youth is full of blindness and passion which frequently 
spends its strength and fades into a mocking memory; 
while the love of maturity is deep, steady and mar¬ 
velous in its loyalty, enduring and protecting with a 
silent magnificence. Well,” he continued with a sigh, 
“I have at least the sacred memory of it all. Memory 
is at once stupendously merciful and pathetically bit¬ 
ter. To possess only a beautiful memory of your 
mother seems merciful to me, little girl, for there was 
naught to mutilate the exquisiteness of our pure friend¬ 
ship. But to have her pass out of this life into the 
next, after all those years of silent devotion, without 
once having the divine privilege of touching her sweet 
lips or hearing one loving word from the depths of her 
heart,—is—is Hell.” 

Gladys rose and bent over the iron-gray haired man 
whose slight but military bearing was no less attractive 
than the clear gray eyes and the ruddy complexion. 
Softly she touched her lips to the high forehead and 
whispered: 

“I am certain mother is close to us both now. 
Surely she loved you; how could she help it ?” 

He shook his head and sighed. 

“Goodbye, little girl,” and he held the extended hand 
for a moment. “If you can’t find time to run down 
to my office, just drop me a line now and again.” 

“Thank you, I will.” 

And Gladys left her friend to his memories. 

Raymond Hallaway returned to his room late the 


GLAD RAY 


77 


same evening overly tired. His arms were laden with 
reference books. His manner was more brusk than 
usual. He was unresponsive to the loving greetings 
of Gladys, and did not notice the baby. The young 
mother made allowances for her lover’s shortcomings, 
attributing his state of mind to the proper cause. 
She determined, however, to assist him financially by 
renting smaller quarters in a less pretentious section of 
Louisville where she could do light housekeeping, and 
support herself and their child by filling orders for 
hand painted fans, birthday tokens, and small water 
colors. She determined to sell her mother’s fine old 
walnut and mahogany furniture. There were four- 
poster beds of Colonial design, and several Chippen¬ 
dale chairs. Among other pieces were cabinets, old 
clocks, chests, dressers, mirrors, halltrees, oil paintings, 
and several valuable massive walnut dining room 
pieces. This would net sufficient money for Ray¬ 
mond’s remaining month in school and the time re¬ 
quired to search for a suitable home. Gladys ventured 
into Raymond’s room to relate her plans and the day’s 
levelations, expecting sympathy and co-operation. In¬ 
stead, he received her coldly and treated her informa¬ 
tion with indifference. Greatly as his attitude pro¬ 
voked her, Gladys still trusted him. Even when he 
torturingly insinuated that he had suspected her late 
mother’s poverty for months, the poor girl was too 
hurt for resentment. He even remarked that not 
having any business ability her mother’s only shrewd 
stroke was when she forced him to place his future 
happiness at the mercy of her daughter by compelling 


78 


GLAD RAY 


him to relate an incident in his life which the daughter 
need never have known. 

“Do you mean that later you would have married 
me and never explained about Stella?” 

“I think so. Are you any better off today for the 
knowing?” 

“I surely am.” 

“You are not, unless you call the satisfying of your 
morbid curiosity being better off.” 

“Raymond, you are too worried this evening to treat 
me with civil respect. I’m not going to remain in 
your room and be insulted.” 

“Get out of it then I didn’t call you up here. 'Phis 
is a place to study and not to gossip.” 

Hallaway commenced to arrange papers on his desk 
and otherwise ignore her. Gladys, crimson with 
mortification, went silently down stairs to assist Dora 
in the delayed preparation of dinner. Half an hour 
later Hallaway joined her. Gladys was too deeply 
grieved to be entertaining but, with a forgiving spirit, 
served him the larger and better portions of the meal. 

“I suppose you think me a cur for the way I spoke 
tonight but sometimes you get on my nerves with your 
dreams and impossible propositions, until I go almost 
mad,” he resumed. 

“There is nothing 'impossible' about selling the fur¬ 
niture or moving into a cheaper neighborhood; and 
furthermore I expect to carry out my 'dreams’ as you 
kindly put it,” she replied. 

“That’s right—now nag," he roared. 

“Well Raymond, don’t you expect me to utter a 


GLAD RAY 


79 


word in defense of myself? If you do not treat me 
fairly, there is no recourse but self-preservation.” 

“If you move out of this locality you g'o alone,—do 
your hear?” and he banged his napkin ring on the 
solid mahogany table with a vengance. 

“Won’t you go with me and let me economize in 
two small rooms, or possibly three?” she entreated. 

“Why should I? To move is your pleasure and 
your own personal prerogative. There is no reason in 
the world why you can’t live where it best pleases you.” 

“Raymond, are you ill, dear?” 

“Ill!” he flashed back. “Not sick in body, but sick 
at heart,—possibly sick of everything.” 

“What do you mean?” cried the wounded woman so 
loudly that it awakened the baby. 

“Simply what I have said. I can’t see how your 
proposition concerns me in the least. I’ll rent a room 
near the College, and run over to see you both when 
my studies permit.” 

He continued eating, oblivious to her tears. Sud¬ 
denly the baby cried louder than before, which added 
to Raymond’s irritability. 

“Won’t you stop that youngster’s noise? I can’t 
stand to hear brats cry from morning until night.” 

Brats! Brats! The hideous name pierced her 
mother heart. 

“She is only frightened at our loud voices,” and 
Gladys took the trembling baby, holding it lovingly as 
she hummed softly from an old melody. She gradual¬ 
ly regained her self-control. She felt the sting but 


80 


GLAD RAY 


tried to reason and think possibly he would desire 
more of her company if it were less easy to obtain. 

“Just as you please about it, Raymond. I won’t 
urge you any more, for I feel so lacking in self-respect 
when I do; but somehow, every time I look into the 
baby’s beautiful eyes, there creeps over me, as it were, 
a—a—a wife’s prerogative, and then suddenly I re¬ 
member that we—that we are not legally married.” 

Hallaway failed to answer, and the silence added 
humiliation to her injured feelings. Gladys felt that 
the only way she could assist Raymond, was to carry 
out her plans. Unselfishness and trust were par¬ 
amount in her every thought. At bedtime, Raymond 
failed to give the baby or Gladys their goodnight kiss. 
Inwardly crushed, but outwardly ignoring his thought¬ 
lessness, Gladys and the little one quietly retired. 

On the day of the auction, Hallaway was busy with 
examinations, so Gladys, assisted by Samuel, Dora and 
the shrill-voiced auctioneer, sold piece after piece of 
the Longworth furniture. She exhibited a fortitude 
most unexpected, considering the curiosity seekers, 
her extreme sensitiveness, and sorrow at parting with 
relics held almost sacred by her family for so many 
years. Her dignity and well assumed strength covered 
the burning shame and her bitter sense of injustice. 
Just the slightest evidence of emotion evinced itself in 
softly , falling tears as a few of the most precious orna¬ 
ments were carted away. Especially was her sorrow 
manifest when she marked “sold" on the red ticket at¬ 
tached to the mahogany hall-clock which had never 
failed to hum its long, deep, slow “tick-tock” as far 


GLAD RAY 


81 


back as she could remember. Glady’s parents had 
told her that it was customary for Colonel Longworth 
to pull the heavy brass winding chains of this same old 
clock once every seven days, long before he ever 
dreamed of there being a little daughter. 

She could recall, watching her father, every Sun¬ 
day evening, winding the old timepiece. After the 
Colonel’s death his attractive widow assumed the al¬ 
most sacred duty, to keep the old clock ever singing its 
soothing refrain: 

“Live-long! live-long! live-long!” 

When Mrs. Longworth also passed out, the winding 
of the old family heirloom fell to the daughter. Rev- 
erently Gladys touched her lips to the wooden knob 
which she knew the patient fingers of her parents had 
clasped as they opened the long glass door. She 
lifted the baby in her arms and pressed one tiny palm 
against the knob just where her lips had been and 
then whispered to the cooing infant about its proud 
grandparents as though the baby could comprehend 
the mother's pathetic secret. 

From the sales, after all expenses had been paid, 
including payment for Sam and Dora there was realized 
about eight hundred dollars,—a mere pittance com¬ 
pared with the original value. A few days later 
Gladys found one very large room for light house¬ 
keeping, where air and sunshine were plentiful. There 
were two closets, a lovely bay window with an eastern 
exposure, and everything about the room was clean 
and neat. That night Gladys wrote all about her ex- 


82 


GLAD RAY 


periences of the last few days to Judge Breckenridge. 
The Judge answered her letter immediately and in this 
manner a correspondence started between the two, 
which gave her a sense of a fatherly protection. 
Gladys did not reveal to Hallaway the amount of 
money she had received, but told him to keep her 
share of his school allowance for himself and use it 
for clothes and other necessities. 

Hallaway seemed relieved but failed to show his 
appreciation. His attitude vexed Gladys greatly. 
How r ever, he did say he would come over to see the 
baby at least once a week though he refused to leave 
the neighborhood of the College to room or board. As 
to the girl-mother’s belief in Hallaway’s promises to 
Mrs. Longworth,—well, faith like hers never acknow¬ 
ledges defeat until shocked by positive evidence. 

Finally Raymond Hallaway became a full-fledged M. 
D. For eight months following his graduation he had 
taken an additional course in “Eye, Ear, Nose and 
Throat.” This made it imperative that he pursue an 
internship of another year or two in his chosen spec¬ 
ialty, at the Holman Hospital near the College grounds. 
Gladys was convinced by her lover’s arguments that 
“general practice’’ was a dog’s life for any doctor, 
and unselfishly urged him to “specialize,” although it 
postponed her dream of “home” indefinitely. 

As the months wore on, Hallaway’s visits to Gladys 
and the baby were few indeed. He seemingly became 
colder toward Gladys and less concerned about the 
winning ways of their little daughter. 


GLAD RAY 


83 


There had been no particular Christian name selected 
for the baby, because the magnanimous law-makers of 
the State refused to permit a child the right of the 
father’s last name until after a legal ceremony had 
been performed. 

Gladys resorted to every self-respecting subterfuge 
to regain Doctor Hallaway’s attention but with dis¬ 
heartening results. In a final and desperate effort 
she spent a portion of her little bank account for a 
smartly tailored gown with hat, gloves and boots 
to harmonize in the soft shades of brown,—most 
becoming to her type of blonde beauty. It was 
Gladys’ earnest desire that Raymond should see 
her attired as in old days. She had begun to under¬ 
stand that the garments a woman wears (espec¬ 
ially the manner in which she wears them) are the 
framework about her physical being which fascinates 
or wearies a man of Hallaway’s tpye. Gladys had 
failed in this because her private purse did not do 
justice to her refined taste. 

At last came one of the appointed days when 
Doctor Hallaway had promised his sweetheart and 
baby a visit. Anticipating the pleasant surprise she 
could give him Gladys left the little one in charge 
of Mrs. Allen, another roomer, and, attired in her 
new outfit, went to meet the Doctor on the campus. 
The day was glorious. All nature was jubilant in its 
virgin loveliness. The birds, flowers and trees breathed 
a symphony of Spring. 

There were several women,—wives, sisters and 
sweethearts, loitering about the main Hospital en- 


84 


GLAD RAY 


trance so Gladys stepped back into the shadow of one 
of the pillars. Several men filed out, both students 
and physicians, who were doing special work or in¬ 
ternships. After a few moments, most of the women 
she noticed had found those whom they were seeking 
and had left. In the last group was Raymond Hal- 
laway. Gladys yearned to call but feared his criticism. 
There was one other woman—a young, dashing bru¬ 
nette—who saw him too. She appeared to have eyes 
for no one but the Doctor. Gladys tried to stifle the 
suspicion which crept uppermost in her heart. She 
knew no other woman would have the right to make 
surreptitious appointments with the father of her little 
baby. Trembling, the wounded girl dragged herself 
further behind the large stone pillar. Revolting 
thoughts passed through her mind as she watched the 
maneuvers of the other woman to attract the Doctor’s 
attention. 

Gladys never had pictured her lover acting with the 
least duplicity. He, the man who had so minutely 
given her dying mother a clear record of his miserable 
past, and who made sacred promises for the future of 
both daughter and infant,—it could never be. Yet, 
here he was, evidently trying to break away from his 
fellow interns, at the same time glancing eagerly about 
as though expecting to meet some one by special 
appointment. 

Suddenly Raymond discovered the little brunette, 
and smiled in a manner Gladys had not seen since his 
former devotion to her. Sick at heart, she stood alone 
in the shadow. It was painfully plain that a meeting had 


GLAD RAY 


85 


been arranged previously. Gladys could hear her 
lover’s deep rich voice as he greeted the dimpled 
stranger and see him draw her gloved hand through 
his arm with an air of ownership. 

‘'Did you wait long, Betty?” and his face was 
dangerously close to “Betty’s” as her full lips formed 
a saucy answer. 

“Not a bit too long when I thought for whom I was 
waiting.” Then she laughed a merry, bird-like laugh 
that pierced the wounded heart of the girl-mother. 

Doctor Hallaway drew “Betty” closer, and snuggled 
her small gloved hand within his own. For a moment 
they stood thus, chatting gayly. 

“How about the promised walk? Are you too tired, 
Fairy-Nurse?” 

“If I am a Fairy-Nurse, you are a Blarney-Man. 
But seriously, it would be better to move along. So 
many of the young physicians and students will rec¬ 
ognize me, and I wouldn’t enjoy their teasing to¬ 
morrow.” 

“You are right; and they shall not have the chance 
to tease you if I can prevent it.” 

The two were coming closer to Gladys’ retreat. 
They would surely discover her, hiding in the shadow. 
Possibly, the astounded girl deliberated, Raymond 
would not recognize her, dressed in the new suit. It 
would be better to walk away quickly as though she 
had been there only an instant; so she started straight¬ 
way toward the approaching couple. Control was 
manifest in every move. A wonderful smile illumined 
her beautiful features as she came face to face with 
her guilty lover. 


86 


GLAD RAY 


“How do you do, Miss Longworth,—Gladys.” Hal- 
laway added her name in a patronizing tone. His self- 
command was only slightly less evident, as he deftly 
lifted his hat. 

Gladys was proud yet charming in her injured dig¬ 
nity. It seemed to her the lovely dark creature leaning 
on the arm of the Doctor must surely hear her heart 
thumping like a trip-hammer. Her knees hit together 
so rapidly she could scarcely stand. The alluring 
smile remained and although her voice trembled 
slightly in its severe tension, a spirit of Southern pride 
asserted itself. 

“Very well, indeed, thank you,” and in an instant 
she had glided past the two with so self-possessed an 
air as to prompt an admiring remark from Betty and a 
dumbfounded gaze from the Doctor. 

It was all thought out so suddenly and acted on so 
splendidly that the absence of tears, comment or hys¬ 
teria caused Raymond Hallaway no little uneasiness. 
He dared to wonder whether Gladys really came to 
meet him after all, so adroitly had she concealed the 
fact. Almost in shame did he crush his doubt of the 
beautiful woman whom he knew to be slavishly in love 
with him, and true as a child in her devotion. For 
a moment he was sorry he had taken up the post-grad¬ 
uate course and internship, and that he had permitted 
it to absorb him. But, he argued, Stella not being 
dead, it was impossible to marry Gladys, anyway, 
though he knew right well he could have begun estab¬ 
lishing a practice which would eventually mean a home 
for his baby and his wife. 


GLAD RAY 


87 


He regretted it was a tendency of the male to be 
morally weak, and the female to be sentimentally 
so, since such conditions made the dashing brunette by 
his side all the more charming. He fully understood 
that spiritually he and Gladys were as much to each 
other in one way as they were to the child in another. 
Even then he tried to excuse his failings as permissible 
among men, and with a determined shrug of his broad 
shoulders he walked rapidly on, keeping up a lively 
conversation to deceive Betty. 

The dainty nurse, Betty Walker, continued a merry 
chatter which gave the Doctor an opportunity to per¬ 
ceive a decided mental and physical contrast between 
the little butterfly clinging to his arm and the fascinat¬ 
ing and lovely woman who had caused within his breast 
a mingled jealousy and alarm. 

After passing Raymond and the nurse, Gladys 
walked briskly across the campus, entering the front 
door of the Main College building, going down the 
long corridor and out the side exit which led to her 
room by a circuitous route. Raymond knew he had 
gone too far with his former sweetheart. She would 
never humble herself to send for him again. If he 
ever desired to see Gladys it would be necessary for 
him to go personally and not try to make excuses by 
letter. The unexpected visit of his baby’s mother to 
the College campus was a turn of affairs he had not 
anticipated. The happy little nurse was but a passing 
fancy,—a relaxation from the strenuous hours in the 
operating room. Further than this the flirtation meant 
nothing to him. Only the ancient and masculine de- 


GLAD RAY 


• 88 

mand for variety, which makes fools of many other¬ 
wise self-respecting men, caused Hallaway temporarily 
to forget his heart's love. 

The Doctor realized he would have to be both tact¬ 
ful and truthful with Gladys. If he did not handle 
her cautiously she might have him behind the bars 
for non-support of his child, and prevent the remainder 
of his special course and internship. He knew neither 
the faculty nor the Hospital Board would tolerate his 
experiences or his present unlicensed paternity. 

The remainder of the Doctor’s walk was one of 
forced gaiety. He pretended to Betty, though the 
hours with her were always filled with exceeding 
happiness, his head had started to ache so severely 
that he must prove wretchedly stupid. 

“What do you suppose caused your headache, Ray¬ 
mond?” Betty inquired solicitously. 

“Overwork and brain racking examinations with my 
post-graduate course and internship,” he answered, 
with an idea of gaining her sympathy. 

After sitting in the park for half an hour listening 
to the twitter of the birds, the patter of the water in 
the cupid fountain, and the empty chatter of his happy 
companion, Hallaway suddenly arose. 

“Betty, you will have to pardon me today for being 
such miserable company. I believe I must be going 
and sleep off this splitting headache. Will you be 
angry ?” 

“No indeed, Raymond.” Betty dipped a violet 
scented handkerchief into the cool water of the foun- 


GLAD RAY 


89 


tain and, wringing it out, folded it carefully under the 
rim of the Doctor’s new straw hat. 

“Thank you dear,” Hallaway sighed, with percep¬ 
tible relief. 

“I wish I could be your nurse for the rest of the 
afternoon and evening, but as I can’t, you keep the 
handkerchief where it will cool your weary head. 
After resting awhile, I’ll return to the Nurses Home 
alone, and you needn’t worry over me one particle.” 

“You are such a dear, Betty. I’ll leave you now, 
if you’ll forgive me.” 

“Run right along, you half-sick boy,” and Betty’s 
large brown eyes frankly met the Doctor’s. 

“Please don’t forget to call me up on Sunday.” Hal¬ 
laway drew the dimpled hand to his lips. 

For an instant Betty’s soft brown eyes met those of 
Hallaway; but the afternoon’s startling experiences 
rushed across the Doctor’s memory,—and before he 
could utter further excuses, he made a wild dash 
toward the humble room of Gladys Longworth and 
his baby daughter. 


CHAPTER VI. 


A FEW years before Mrs. Longworth died, while 
Gladys was away studying art, one of the in¬ 
structors, Carston Ronning, a man of powerful build, 
splendid education, and rare geniality paid devoted 
attention to his fair pupil. Her fellow students teased 
Gladys about him but she modestly denied knowledge 
of her teacher’s partiality. The few times she accepted 
the invitations of Professor Ronning to lectures or 
entertainments had been memorable occasions. There 
were not more than seven year’s difference in their 
ages and they had many attributes in common. 

On that same beautiful Spring afternoon, only a 
few moments after Gladys had witnessed the duplicity 
of her lover, while walking briskly toward her room, 
she suddenly felt a firm grip on her arm. Looking up 
she beheld a handsome stranger whose cleancut 
features were wreathed in smiles as he exclaimed: 
“My dear Gladys, how do you do!” 

For an instant she was frightened. In another mo¬ 
ment Gladys recognized her old friend and teacher, 
and eagerly clasped his extended hand. 

“Mr. Ronning! How perfectly lovely to meet you 
again. I thought you were out West,—possibly a full- 
fledged ranchman.” 


90 


GLAD RAY 


91 


“Well, I just came into town yesterday, and have 
been trying all day to locate you.” 

“All day?” she repeated. 

“Yes, Gladys.” Then tenderly. “Are you truly 
surprised, after my marked attentions to you when 
you were attending Art school?” 

“Just seeing you so unexpectedly, startled me,” she 
answered evasively. 

Carston Ronning saw the same expression, well- 
moulded lines, sweet smile,—and in her well-modu¬ 
lated voice he once more listened to the soothing musi¬ 
cal tones which he had dreamed about as he painted in 
the Rockies. Professor Ronning had gone West be¬ 
cause he yearned for artistic atmosphere and rugged 
scenery. People, unless talented or sympathetic, did 
not interest him. He felt that the mountains, freedom 
from conventionality, quiet, and the high altitude, 
would supply the change he needed. 

From his previous years of tutoring and the sales 
from his brush, he had purchased an attractive ranch 
in the heart of the mountains where, with his mother 
and three helpers, he had found an artist’s retreat en¬ 
viable for its magnificent views. After a year of 
steady work he had learned that the memory of Gladys 
Longworth’s unaffected laughter, her perfect smile and 
mellow voice had been his silent inspiration in the val¬ 
leys or on the peaks. The artist’s soul in him could 
find her spirit-smile glowing from the mountain wild 
flower, or hear her rich musical voice in the ripple of 
the mountain stream. All nature had meant more to 


92 


GLAD RAY 


him. He had learned that love is the greatest factor 
in displaying intelligence and expression on canvas. 
His brushes worked faster; his colors blended more 
harmoniously; and all nature appeared more a part of 
his artistic self than ever before. 

Carston Ronning was an odd mixture, yet a de¬ 
lightful man to meet. He was an optimist and dream¬ 
er, yet physical advantages had produced a strong, 
broad type of man such as one seldom finds in the 
artist. Being sincerely in love, he decided to test the 
apparently true to the fullest. He believed his little 
pupil would develop into womanhood more perfectly 
rounded if he refrained from speaking of love until 
he was proof-positive of his own. All his life lacked 
now was a loving wife to share his happiness and in¬ 
spire him to greater achievements. 

His dear old mother was Ronning’s devoted chum, 
but the comradeship a wife bestows, which a real man 
yearns for through life, was lacking. There was no 
one to understand his cravings and ideals. In his 
rambles he made friends with the birds, squirrels, 
mountain streams, forests and the flowers. Even they 
could not always convince the artist soul of him, that 
nature gave to creatures of their blessed kind the mar¬ 
velous sense of spiritual life,—the knowledge of the 
unity in all things, although he knew certain author¬ 
ities taught such philosophy. 

Carston Ronning had become restless and he knew 
the cure. Unless he had his life completed, and in turn 
completed the unfinished part of some good woman’s 
life, he could not endure another year on the ranch. 


GLAD RAY 


93 


“I went to your old home and found it empty,” Car- 
ston explained, “but a Tor Sale’ sign directed me to 
the Bank. One of the trustees is a friend and he di¬ 
rected me to your family lawyer, Judge Thomas Breck- 
enridge. I waited two hours in that estimable jurist’s 
reception room, and then made up my mind he must 
have become glued to some case in court. I asked the 
elevator boy to direct me to the nearest park. I 
haven’t found the park yet, but I have found the very 
girl for whom I have been looking.” 

“I’ll direct you to the park. It is so beautiful this 
afternoon. There are so many lovely places for us to 
rest while we talk over old times and your achieve¬ 
ments.” 

Most any excuse was better than to take her former 
teacher and admirer to her temporary home. Above 
all, she dreaded to have him know about the baby. She 
was not ashamed of the little one, for Gladys was a 
loving and conscientious mother, but she disliked to 
have friends of better days know anything concerning 
her present predicament. 

“Are we close to the park?” he queried. 

“Only two squares away,” and Gladys pointed in the 
proper direction. 

“Capital idea then,” agreed the artist, getting into 
step. “Now tell me all about yourself, and why you 
gave up the family home.” 

“Mother died a year ago last March, and the dear 
old place, so long in my father’s family, passed out of 
our hands some weeks before her death.” 


94 


GLAD RAY 


Visions of the last few days spent in the Longworth 
mansion passed rapidly before Gladys. 

“Forgive me for mentioning it. I had no idea of 
such painful sorrow,” Ronning said apologetically. 

“Painful sorrow!” murmured the lonely girl-mother, 
as she considered the peace in death’s sweet sleep, in 
comparison to the torture in a living hades. “There 
is no pain in death. Death, to me, seems but a gentle 
transition from one elevation of intelligence to an¬ 
other. In fact, there is no actual death, except in the 
decayed, illusive, and unresponsive flesh,—at least 
that is the way some of my nearest friends have satis¬ 
factorily explained it to me.” 

“True, little philosopher,” acquiesced the professor, 
delighted with the thoughts of his former pupil. 
“What gave you the idea of no pain in death, and no 
real death at that?” 

“Different books I have read; friends with whom I 
have discussed the question; and partly because of my 
own conception of everything about Nature,—for in¬ 
stance, the seasons.” 

“Seasons?” Carston Ronning arched his brows. 

“Yes, the seasons of the year,” Gladys responded 
with measured seriousness. “Seeing each year grow 
more beautiful and more wonderful than the year be¬ 
fore, yet knowing it is the same atmosphere,—the same 
universe of which I am in awe year after year,—it is 
no wonder that the birth and death of the human being 
(which is tremendously more important than the birth 
and death of the seasons) should so fill me with the 


GLAD RAY 


95 


sweet assurance that there is no real death in anything. 
There is just the same spiritual transition as experi¬ 
enced by the seasons. After the end of this existence, 
as we understand it, and the unseen Reaper has gath¬ 
ered His harvest, we surely must awaken in the divine 
knowledge and fullness of Everlasting Ascension. 
There is no limit to Intelligence or Spiritual Progres¬ 
sion. Just as there is no limitation to the worthy ma¬ 
terial type too, such as art, music or knowledge. There 
is no death in Spirit, because Spirit is Divine Mind, 
Intelligence, Nature; and of course Divine Mind neith¬ 
er decays nor dies, but is Everlasting and Eternal.” 

“That is quite scientific, if you wish to call it that,” 
declared Ronning. 

“I do not wish to name it; to me it is a simple, plain, 
satisfying Truth. Long ago I received a startling rev¬ 
elation of how I had apparently retarded my mental 
growth. At that time I bade farewell to ancient creeds 
and limited dogmas. Instead, I take Nature or Cre¬ 
ative Intelligence for my object lesson, not a material 
flesh illusion. You know flesh cannot create or limit 
creation. It takes Divine Intelligence or Nature to 
create anything. Humans can construct from things 
once created, but they cannot create one single thing. 
Invention, discovery or construction is not creating 
anything. 

“Take the tiny wood violet;” continued Gladys, be¬ 
coming enthusiastic, “some one plucks the delicate 
blossom, it apparently dies. The next season Nature, 
or Divine Intelligence, sends forth another violet, and 
the violet plant lives on season after season. So with 


96 


GLAD RAY 


the trees,—though their beauty fade, the material 
leaves die, but not the Creative Intelligence which is 
the real Life of the trees. And the trees live on and 
again adorn their surroundings with renewed evidence 
of Life Everlasting. Everything worth while is good, 
and All Good, and all that breathes of Life Everlast¬ 
ing is a monumental evidence of the Creative Genius 
or God’s perfect idea.” 

Gladys’ face was radiant with animation, and her 
delicate coloring was as alluring as her remarks. To 
Carston Ronning she was an ideal of beauty and 
optimism. 

‘‘Don’t you believe that we humans can create any¬ 
thing?” queried Carston. 

“To invent, discover or construct is indicative of 
mortal talent and material skill; while the creating of 
anything in this Universe from Niagara Falls to the 
delicate wild flowers, human form, or the mere atom 
of sand, is alone of God’s Divine Genius and Power, 
and far beyond material or human possibilities.” 

“Wonderful philosophy,” he soliloquized. 

They had reached the center of the park where the 
rest benches edged the main walk. There was one 
bench a little in the rear of the others, near the artifi¬ 
cial lake, where two old willow trees in leafless grace 
bowed low, displaying the lovely pussy buds of Spring. 

“That seems like a comfortable bench. We might 
sit there,” and Ronning gently led Gladys to the seat. 

It was a pleasant place to absorb the quiet beauty 
of the park, and the refreshing breezes of a Southern 
Spring. Robins chirped near by; locusts sang their 


GLAD RAY 


97 


chant; and the welcome sun kissed the earth with 
warmth and cheer. 

“Do you like it here in Louisville?” asked the artist, 
carelessly placing his arm on the back of the bench. 

“I like it because it is my home; but any spot one 
calls ‘home’ is sacred, I think.” 

“What is ‘home’ to you, dear,” and he touched her 
shoulder ever so gently. 

“Home is atmosphere,” and Gladys pretended not to 
notice Ronning’s effort to draw her a little closer. 

“A mere house—an old homestead—does not con¬ 
stitute 'home’ to you, then?” 

“No,” she reflected, “home is love and truth, and 
not the material things. “Home” is not the ornaments 
within, nor the acreage one owns, but things money 
cannot buy. ‘Home’ is the love we give and on which 
we lean; the gentle words we use, and the spirit felt— 
not seen. The ‘home’ is what we LIVE it, and com¬ 
prises mental and moral atmosphere. Don’t you think 
so?” 

“Yes, Gladys, I do. But don’t you believe a dear 
little house helps to add harmony to the atmosphere?” 
A smile danced in Ronning’s bright blue eyes. 

“From a material sense it certainly adds to one’s 
happiness, of course.” She returned the artist’s smile 
with an irresistible pucker of the soft red lips. 

“If some one offered you a comfortable home, would 
you accept it, dear?” he pleaded, taking the shapely 
hand closest to him, and reaching his arm a little fur¬ 
ther about her shoulder. 


98 


GLAD RAY 


“It would all depend,” and Gladys tried to move 
away, as she recalled the “home” she had so often 
dreamed about with Raymond and the baby. 

“Gladys, my darling, don’t be afraid. Surely you 
must know why I have come back to you. My love for 
the little girl I knew away at Art school has been 
tested. Once or twice I wrote to you, but received no 
answer, dear. A persistent wee voice told me some¬ 
thing was wrong, and I could not endure it longer, so 
I came all the way back to ask you to be my wife. 
Sweetheart,—sweetheart,” he repeated earnestly, “will 
you ?” 

“Carston, I wish I knew what to tell you.” Her 
voice was sweet and low,—the voice Ronning could 
hear whispering responses to his love messages as he 
wandered over valley and mountain. “It is wrong to 
give you too much encouragement.” Her large blue 
eyes turned to his with the saddest expression he had 
ever read in them. 

“Gladys,” and he pressed her hand under his ruddy 
palm, “didn’t you love me just a little when you were 
away at School?” 

“Please do not ask me.” The impossibility of this 
new happiness was only too vividly beyond her reach. 

“I have the right to ask you. Surely you are not 
married?” His tone was filled with alarm. 

“No, no, I am not, and do not suppose marriage 
will be my privilege." The discouraged girl struggled 
against the tears seemingly bound to come. 

“Then there is no reason in the world why I cannot 
ask you to be my wife.’' He leaned toward the tremb- 


GLAD RAY 


99 


ling form, lifting her tapering fingers to his lips, as he 
added: “Dearest, little girl, won’t you try to love me? 
Was I completely mistaken, in the old days?” 

Gladys smiled slightly, and a stray tear or two per¬ 
sisted in falling, regardless of her nonchalant effort. 

“I used to think,” she began timidly, “there was no 
man quite so lovable as my teacher.” 

“What do you think now?” and he gazed on her 
beautiful face with heart-starved yearning. 

Gladys was on the verge of giving her anxious 
wooer a more favorable reply, when suddenly she saw 
a familiar form, walking rapidly down the gravel path 
close to the bench she and Carston had chosen. 

“How do you do, Miss Longworth,” and Raymond 
Hallaway stood before her with outstretched hand. “I 
was just going to call on you, but it will be a pleasure 
to do so this evening, with your permission.” 

Carston Ronning did not particularly like the Doc¬ 
tor’s familiarity. Gladys was visibly embarrassed, as 
she reluctantly offered the tips of her fingers to the 
Doctor. Ronning politely moved toward the end of 
the bench. 

“Professor Ronning, this is Dr. Hallaway, an old 
friend of our family.” Gladys could scarcely compre¬ 
hend how she ever spoke the introduction. Looking 
frankly at the Doctor, she added: “Professor Ron¬ 
ning was my painting master at school. I believe you 
once saw his picture, and heard me speak of him.” 

“Yes,—yes I did,—to be sure. Pm indeed glad to 
make your acquaintance.” Hallaway’s manner put all 
three more at ease. 


100 


GLAD RAY 


“Won’t you join us, Dr. Hallaway?” 

“No, thank you, Professor. All I desire is permis¬ 
sion to call on Miss Longworth this evening.” Look¬ 
ing directly at Gladys he continued : “May I ?” 

Neither the voice nor the expression escaped Ron- 
ning. 

“If you care to,—yes,” replied Gladys, indifferently. 

“Thank you,—I’ll be there at eight.” Once more ex¬ 
tending his hand to Ronning, and smiling knowingly 
at Gladys, the Doctor hurried away with the parting 
shot: “Don’t forget to be home, as we have a few 
things to adjust.” 

He was gone before the astonished girl could think 
of an answer. 

“Who is that fellow, anyway? He seemed to be 
worried.” 

“Oh, he’s all right. I've known him for—why, ever 
since I came home from school. He lived at my moth¬ 
er’s in the old home, before she died. 

“How did you greet him?” Carston was wondering 
if Hallaway could have wormed his way into the affec¬ 
tions of Gladys. 

“As ‘Doctor.’ He is a physician, taking a post-grad¬ 
uate course in Eye, Ear, Nose and Throat.” Gladys 
tried hard to smile. 

“It was certainly an inopportune time. I haven’t 
had my answer, either, by the way.” 

Gladys considered it inopportune, in more ways than 
Ronning. She wondered how it would be possible to 
resent Hallaway’s duplicity, when he had found her in 


GLAD RAY 


101 


such a dilemma and how she could prove to him her 
own innocence. 

“I can’t give you an answer so quickly, dear.” 
Gladys blushed when she uttered the affectionate term. 
“The sun is going down, and I’ll have to return.” 

Gladys wondered if the baby had been good with 
Mrs. Allen, the only roomer with whom she had made 
friends,—a woman of mature years, who knew the 
truth of Gladys’ misfortune, but who wisely kept her 
own counsel. 

“Please don’t hurry, darling, until you can give me a 
little ray of hope. It would be selfish to ask a final 
decision,” he declared. 

Gladys dreaded to reject this chance for happiness, 
yet she felt for the sake of the child—if the Doctor 
would only play fair—it was her duty to marry her 
lover, even when her love and respect had shriveled 
into fear and distrust. 

“Carston, this is a matter affecting too many lives to 
answer immediately. Your mother, you, our friends, 
—there is much to be considered. Besides, I have one 
or two confidences to impart to you.” 

“Darling! My beautiful girl! Your present con¬ 
scientiousness reminds me so much of the sweet girl- 
student you always were,—unselfish and considerate. 
But assure your good self that there is nothing you 
could tell me which would change my present desires. 
The past is dead. It is NOW. Now, Gladys, is the 
time we are to begin living for each other! I want 
you, dearest,—want you for my wife. I LOVE YOU. 


102 


GLAD RAY 


Oh, beloved, how deeply and truly I love you. May I 
hope, dear, just a wee bit?” 

“I guess,—a little,—perhaps.” The instant Gladys 
gave her answer she regretted it; but deep in her 
wounded heart she yearned for a loyal man’s love, and 
to be called “wife.” 

“Sweetheart, how happy even that little hope makes 
me. It gives me the right to show openly my devo¬ 
tion. It grants me the privilege of using every hon¬ 
orable means to win your love.” 

“Please don’t, Carston, I can’t stand it. Too much 
has happened recently, and I am only human. I guess 
I am weak,—or possibly have all the traits of—” 

“Of a pure, sweet woman,” interrupted Ronning, de- 
fendingly. Then he continued: “I have dreamed of 
holding you in my arms,—of kissing your soft warm 
lips. Gladys! Darling! Surely you will not keep the 
good news away from me a moment after you have de¬ 
cided?” he pleaded, earnestly. “You won’t play with 
my love, will you dear?” 

Gladys was trembling. “You won't play with my 
love, will you dear?” rang in her ears. What was she 
doing? She couldn’t treat others as she had been 
treated. Carston Ronning must know the truth, and 
NOW. Instantly a brave woman’s heart conquered all 
vain desires for conquest. 

“Your love, dear, is the truest, most unselfish love 
ever offered me.” A choking in her throat made 
Gladys hesitate. “I respect it too much, Carston, to 
keep you in needless suspense. As much as I would 
pride my self on being your wife,—I cannot.” 



GLAD RAY 


103 


Gladys rose and leaned against the willow tree, cov¬ 
ering her face with her hands, trying to hide the shame 
written there, as the tears trickled between her fingers. 

Ronning was by her side in an instant. 

“Dearest! Gladys ! Let me share the sorrow which 
is torturing you. I love you! Oh, sweetheart, I love 
you!” 

The heart broken girl motioned not to touch her, and 
made an effectual effort to control her grief. After a 
little she looked up into the artist’s face. 

“Carston, you always have been a splendid man 
among men to me.” 

“Then you love me?” he interposed eagerly. 

“There could be nothing less than the deepest respect 
for you,—of that I am certain,” she replied, still hesi¬ 
tating. 

“And? Sweetheart, please don’t keep me in this 
wretched suspense,” he implored. 

“Carston, can’t you understand?” 

“You don’t mean that you have no love for me? He 
rested his hands on her shoulders as he gazed into the 
depths of her lustrous blue eyes, trying to read his 
answer. 

“Don’t ask me dear, I cannot—marry you. Carston! 
Carston! Can’t you understand? I cannot—marry 
you.” 

Before the astonished man could comprehend, 
Gladys rushed past him down the winding path, hid¬ 
den by budding trees and bushes. 


CHAPTER VII. 


W HEN Gladys engaged her room she assumed the 
name of “Mrs. Hall.” If closely questioned, 
she avoided mention of “husband” or “business.” 

“Your baby has been so good, Mrs. Hall. She is 
sleeping.” The motherly Mrs. Allen softly opened the 
door for Gladys. 

“You are kind, Mrs. Allen, and I hardly know how 
to thank you,—especially when you refuse to accept 
money.” 

“The beautiful country scenes you painted for me 
are pay enough for months to come. You know paint¬ 
ings are luxuries, not necessities,” and the appreciative 
woman opened the door wider. “You look nervous, 
Mrs. Hall,—I hope you are not ill.” 

“Not at all, thank you, but I am tired,” and Gladys 
gathered the precious baby in her arms and bade Mrs. 
Allen goodnight. She hurried to her room where she 
found Hallaway waiting for her. 

“Raymond! You said you were going to call to¬ 
night !” The frightened girl laid the sleeping child in 
its downy bed and with trembling fingers turned the 
lights higher and lowered the shades. “Do you know 
it is only six o’clock?” 

“I had no intention of waiting until night, but came 

104 


GLAD RAY 


105 


directly over after leaving you with your new lover.” 
The Doctor uttered this in jealousy and obviously to 
vindicate himself. He had been humbled before the 
Longworth family to the limit of endurance. Since he 
met Gladys he had been a better man, and save occa¬ 
sional transgressions had in no wise morally fallen. 

“Shame! You are only trying a bluff! Or using 
this petty means of forcing a confession from me con¬ 
cerning something of which I am not guilty. You 
would like to torture me on account of your own black 
conscience! There are many so-called ‘men’ like you. 
Creatures of your stamp are called ‘men’ for lack of 
another name,—and because society condones the 
crimes of the male! Let a man sin, and he can easily 
purchase a round-trip ticket back to the good graces 
of society; but let a woman make the same error, and 
she finds her ticket good for one way only.” Gladys 
faced Raymond defiantly. 

Red with anger, Doctor Hallaway began pacing back 
and forth. He was perceptibly surprised that Gladys, 
who of late had been readily subdued by irony, now 
refused to cringe under his verbal lash. It was the 
only opportunity he had of pointing to one doubtful act 
and, he intended to take advantage of her position. 

“So you think,” sneered Hallaway, “that sitting in 
the park, with a man’s face close to yours means noth- 
mg: 

“It means nothing of the low construction you place 
on it,” Gladys flung back. 

“Has he been purchasing your water colors and 


106 


GLAD RAY 


birthday cards, instead of the stores you’ve been tell¬ 
ing me about?” he fairly thundered. 

“Never! He knows nothing about me except the 
good when I was away at school. He was my teacher,” 
she cried. 

“It’s queer how attentive he acted—for a teacher!” 
Hallaway continued to pace the floor. “Do you think 
you can fool me ?—That big hulk of a ‘teacher’ here to 
‘reminisce’ about school days? He was making love 
to you,—trying to gain the price of your soul.” 

The Doctor never intended this insult. His desire 
was to force Gladys into admitting what he believed 
was the truth concerning Ronning’s visit. 

“Oh, you coward! You coward! You coward!” 
cried Gladys, superb in her anger. “Trying to gain the 
price of my soul! That gift, once so innocently 
pawned to you for the price of three years of abject 
misery, has been redeemed. Once it was impulsively 
pledged as a remnant of what was left of my self-re¬ 
spect when I listened to your soft phrases; and later it 
was regained,—not by your faithfulness and honor— 
but by my heart’s blood, my reputation, the lost name 
of my family, and the everlasting disgrace of illegiti¬ 
macy with which secret murderers in society, brand a 
helpless babe like mine!” Her voice was clear, dis¬ 
tinct, but not raised, in its certainty. “I redeemed my 
soul through sacrifice, suffering, mortification,—yes, 
shame and humiliation, and I shall keep it by the right 
of my womanhood, and my belief in Life Eternal.” 

“For Heaven’s sake, stop!” shouted Hallaway who 
knew he had gone too far. 


GLAD RAY 


107 


“Stop? Never! For many a day I have desired to 
tell you this.” As she continued Gladys unclasped the 
tight collar of her new suit, baring her shapely throat. 
Her bosom rose and fell with emotion. “My soul!” 
she continued, “my soul! There is no one more aware 
of the pitiless price I paid, than you are, ‘Doctor Hal- 
laway.’ This poor little baby is the direct result of 
your miserable conception of ‘trust.’ Do you hear? 
You cunning scoundrel! Your affection is a combina¬ 
tion of selfishness and pretense,—threadbare pretense. 
When I saw you with that woman today, at last it 
dawned on me ’twas fear rather than love, I held for 
you. I am no longer afraid. I hate you for your very 
thoughts of duty. I hate you for your lies, your un¬ 
worthiness, your deception, and your insinuation of a 
few moments ago. Yes, I hate you! I hate you!” 
she raged. 

The young mother clung frantically to the bed for 
support. The door to Gladys’ room had remained 
slightly ajar and two figures stood without, almost 
spellbound, as they listened to the fiery dialogue with¬ 
in. 

“Pretty speech! Dramatic oration! Feel better 
now?” goaded Hallaway. 

“This is not a case of temper, but of long-suppressed 
indigation,” she answered sharply. 

“Feel better?” he repeated. 

“Better!” cried the exasperated woman. “Better, 
indeed! Nothing would make me feel better than to 
know that just once, only once I could bring you to a 
full realization that all your talk to my dying mother 


108 


GLAD RAY 


was a part of your life of lies, and brazen conceit. 
Admitting I was a sentimental fool to listen to your 
smooth, soft words, you were worse than a beast,— 
you were a moral coward. Your cowardice is not 
manifest in your influence over me, for your views 
broadened me and caused me to see life from a more 
spiritual standpoint.” 

“A thousand thanks for your condescension, and the 
bravery of your polite acknowledgment,” he inter¬ 
posed. 

“Your cowardice has shown itself since the baby 
came,” she continued, ignoring his irony. “You have 
violated my trust repeatedly; laughed at me when I 
remonstrated with you; sneered when I mentioned 
marriage as though I were insane to wish the baby to 
have her legal rights. You have ignored the fact that 
you are a father, by your conduct with other women. 
It would be expecting too much that I should live to 
see the day when you will make your own moral diag¬ 
nosis,—a well developed case of conceit and deceit.” 

“Possibly you think you believe all this. Some day, 
pray God, you will discover that hysterical persons 
are comparative strangers to reason, tact, and the great 
underlying principle of endurance and diplomatic si¬ 
lence. It is conceded by good authorities that females 
are more easily influenced, between the ages of sixteen 
to twenty-six, and thirty-eight to fifty, by masterful 
language, attractive environment, impetuous wooing 
and hysterical imaginings, than males of the same 
ages. However, I thought you were the exception. 


GLAD RAY 


109 


Your professor-lover doubtless has impressed you with 
his superiority as an authority.” 

“He is guiltless of any wrong intentions. He told 
me only the truth,—a truth I recognized as the love of 
a self-respecting man; not the kind with which you 
blinded me as you spoke of false standards and ideals.” 

“Gladys, there is no ideal too high for attainment. 
If we do not realize our life’s most sacred desires, the 
fault rests with ourselves.” 

“Were my acquaintance with you less intimate, I’d 
begin to believe you actually abided by your beautiful 
theories.” 

“I struggle to do so; but there is nothing which 
more quickly destroys optimism and gentleness, and 
substitutes pessimism and sarcasm, than some of the 
unreasonable naggings you served to me on the platter 
of poor tact, with plenty of hysterical tears as the fin¬ 
ishing relish.” 

“I never intentionally nagged you. Professor 
Ronning came here expecting to find me the same 
free, happy, innocent girl he left when he went West. 
He has come back to tell me of his success and to 
ask me to—to be his wife.” 

“What did you tell him ?” 

“Nothing. I will see him tomorrow, if possible, and 
then he must know the truth.” 

Hallaway laughed mockingly. 

“So you laugh at an honest man’s love, do you? 
You cad! If the world only knew that your poor little 
wife was lured into your licentious meshes by your 
rotten drunken influence, and is now in the madhouse 


110 


GLAD RAY 


because a sign, which she had used to advertise her 
support of your rum-soaked body, fell upon her head— 
who in the world would respect you? Perhaps, if the 
people knew the persistency of such vultures as you 
they could better understand why I have been playing 
my loathsome part to cover your disgusting selfishness, 
and trusting to lead you into a respectable future.” 

“Stop! You she-snake!” shouted Hallaway. “If 
you were not a woman, I’d choke Hell out of you!” 
Hallaway moved closer to the bed with fists clenched. 
“You know you are lying when you say I influenced 
Stella to marry me. Until I was sober I knew nothing 
of what was going on. If any influence were used it 
was exercised on me." My reason for silence was be¬ 
cause no one would take a drunkard’s word. More 
than that, she was my wife. God help you if you 
ever venture to mention that to me again.” 

“I’m not so easily convinced as my mother,” insinu¬ 
ated Gladys. 

“No, your mother was a diplomat; while you are a 
hell cat. I wish you could keep your tongue from 
wagging at both ends. You doubt me because I’m 
powerless to marry you until after Stella’s death. That 
is injustice. My weaknesses may be many, but one of 
them is not a betrayal of your trust. God knows, there 
is but one woman in the world for me. Answer me, 
do you intend to marry this Ronning?” 

“Marry Professor Ronning? What a question for 
you to ask. Do you think I could unite my life with 
his without telling him the miserable truth? Do you 
think I’d saddle him with the results of your dual life, 


GLAD RAY 


111 


when everything he offers me is done openly and hon¬ 
estly? No, of course not. I’m not going to marry 
Carston Ronning, and furthermore, I told him so to¬ 
day. Tomorrow I will tell him why,” and Gladys 
pointed to the sleeping infant. 

“You mentioned in no delicate terms how you hated 
me. Perhaps—” Raymond Hallaway was about to 
suggest it would be better for Gladys to reconsider her 
decision not to marry him. 

“You are free so far as any promise to mother or 
me is concerned. But, Raymond, don’t think for a 
moment because my life is ruined that you can force 
me to ruin the happiness of another. There is not the 
slightest desire in my heart to marry you. You are in 
love with the little brunette, and equally tired of me. 
Possibly you intend to marry this unsuspecting creat¬ 
ure,—but more likely she is simply another plaything 
in your life. Take her,—poor girl. She has my pity.” 

“I wouldn’t marry her if she were the last woman 
on earth,” and the Doctor snapped his fingers with 
disdain. “I simply became weary of being nagged,— 
constantly nagged, but meeting her has no signifi¬ 
cance.” 

Gladys choked back the persistent tears. 

“I do know this, Betty Walker’s life will not be 
ruined as mine has been if I can prevent it. I also 
know,” she rose and advanced toward the Doctor with 
warning finger, “I have no intention of marrying you 
at any time, free or not free. There will be no more 
Hell brought into my life and no opportunity for you 
to disgrace the baby. You and I must seek separate 


112 


GLAD RAY 


paths. Are you listening? I have come to the con¬ 
clusion that Hell is not a location but a condition. It 
is my intention to find a bit of Heaven. 

The Doctor shrugged his broad shoulders, and 
walked across the room to the center table where he 
leaned against it, the while gazing at Gladys with a 
half discouraged and half quizzical expression. 

“At least,” added Gladys with forced indifference, 
“I will have been true to my honest convictions.” 

“True to your prejudices,” he half moaned. “Oh, 
Gladys,” the Doctor signed meaningly, “it is to be 
hoped some day you will learn that the measured truths 
of scorn are truths indeed, but far, far less holy than 
the sublime lies of pity, love and protection.” 

“The baby and I will get along without you here¬ 
after, Raymond Hallaway; and we will not need lies of 
pity, love or protection.” Gladys stood like a statute 
before him. 

“Do you mean I am not to see you again, or the 
baby?” 

“Exactly that,” replied the determined woman. 

“Do you realize the child is mine as well as yours,— 
and that we have no moral right to separate? Do you 
forget that spiritually we are one? Are you going to 
break faith because I was weak for a moment? I may 
not have shown my devotion as newer friends may do, 
but my baby girl and her mother are the main thoughts 
of my life, just the same.” Doctor Hallaway moved 
with an air of ownership toward the bed, but like a 
flash Gladys stepped between. 

“You have had almost three years to prove your de- 


GLAD RAY 


113 


votion and you seemingly cared only for favorable im¬ 
pression before my mother. Since then you seemed in¬ 
different whether baby lived or died. Now that I have 
let you out of my life forever, you shall also go out 
of hers. You can’t play fast and loose with my love 
any longer.” 

“You won’t work that part of your scheme so 
smoothly,” he fired back. “I will declare publicly this 
child is mine,—and she is mine/' 

“How can you prove it if I wish to deny it, and some 
other man, brave enough to stand by all conditions, 
will admit the child is his ?” 

“So that’s your game, is it?” Hallaway’s lip curled 
and his eyes fairly blazed vengeance. 

“There is no game in protecting my baby from your 
influence. It seems to me you had better not try fur¬ 
ther to blacken your reputation for the good of your 
own future. That baby shall have no shadows cast 
over her life if I can avoid it. Should I speak to my 
father's comrades, the finish would place you where 
Betty Walker, your child, or I need worry no longer 
concerning your Mormonism.” 

“If there could be a green-eyed, narrow-minded and 
snipped-eared woman in this world, she would be you. 
There is no use arguing with a set-jawed female,— 
especially the combination of a Lee and a Longworth. 
I might as well leave you now as later. After all our 
understandings,—our dreams of happiness,—this is a 
pitiful ending. Thank God, you will not be my final 
Judge!” Making one desperate, last attempt to bring 


114 


GLAD RAY 


Gladys to a realization of the step she was about to 
take, the Doctor once more pleaded: “For God’s sake, 
Gladys, be reasonable. Can’t you see that deep in my 
heart I never intended to harm you ? I worship you! 
Darling! Darling! I worship you! Don’t you love 
me,—even for the baby’s sake?” 

“What kind of a woman do you think I am?” Gladys 
was unmoved. 

“I am just wondering,” came the suggestive reply. 
“One minute I believe you true to the good old prom¬ 
ises, and the next you convince me of your unstability.” 

“Because I sinned once and proved a sentimental 
fool, does not mean there is not an end to your vicious 
influence. The end has come. I have seen it ap¬ 
proaching for months, but now I know that the truth 
and the dignity of my womanhood have been asserted.” 

“Dignity! Hell!” Hallaway jammed his fist on the 
table. “So you think to desert me will prove your 
womanhood? You think by sending me away from 
my child you can prove to the world I failed in my 
promises? You are no better than I am and it is our 
duty to remain together for the sake of our child. 
Most women, in your position would be glad to have 
the father of their baby feel about the matter as I al¬ 
ways have felt. When I chose you for the mother of 
my child, and the little life came to us,—THAT was 
the fulfillment of Creative Law. It bound us morally 
and spiritually as husband and wife. I pity you, 
Gladys, that your conception of our united responsi¬ 
bility is so impaired. In the dim future, because of 
your narrow vision, you will be forced to endure long 


GLAD RAY 


115 


hours of loneliness and misery. It is then the real 
truth will assert itself.” 

“You are painfully conceited! To think you are as 
good as I am is almost simple!” exclaimed the excited 
girl-mother. “No man is as good as a good woman!” 

“Whew ! Did you say / was conceited ?” The Doc¬ 
tor looked out of the corner of his eye in a half amused 
manner. 

“I am infinitely superior in every way. My body is 
as pure as a lily,—and fit to become the mother of a 
good man’s child. By your own confession, you led 
a wild and worthless life until you met Stella Allen. 
After that, you deadened your few remaining sensibil¬ 
ities by continuous drunken debauches. Since Stella’s 
accident you have studied, but all the while you have 
borne a fast name,—yes, and you knew this even when 
my dear mother permitted you to enter the sanctity of 
our home. Anyway, most men are like beasts,, ready to 
tear the heart’s blood from the body of every trusting 
woman. 

“So? Men are like beasts, eh? Well, you fail to 
perceive in your own sex, wild cats in the form of 
SHE-DEVILS, with vicious, vindictive, jealous men¬ 
talities only falling short of their original wild an¬ 
cestors because their sharpened tongues are bridled 
and their claws manicured by the deceits which society, 
culture, education and vanity provide. Women are 
more dangerous than the wild cats of the mountains. 
Of the latter you are forewarned, and know what to do 
to escape trouble; but with the soft, purring, sharp- 
clawed, sneaking, human feline—” and Hallaway 


116 


GLAD RAY 

/ 

lifted both his arms in a gesture which indicated the 
utter hopelessness of the situation. 

“You have met a peculiar species in your time,” and 
Gladys gave the Doctor a withering look. 

“Madam, I have!” Hallaway met her gaze un¬ 
flinchingly. 

Gladys lowered her eyes. The arrow had pierced 
the mark. Whatever humility overcame her effort at 
retort was closely followed by better logic. 

“The world,” she began, “through a mistaken double 
code of social and moral laws, has always expected 
and demanded a higher standard of moral ethics from 
women than from men. As a class, women have 
proven equal to the requirements. The day is near, 
however, when education and intelligence will treat 
vice in men with the same social ostracism that it does 
in women. Women will make this possible. I feel it 
a privilege accorded me to teach my friends that 
through sacrifice and motherhood, thrust upon women 
by the selfishness of male brutes, has been unfolded a 
tremendous truth about which society has given little 
thought. When the laws of social intercourse give as 
much attention to the moral courtesies and rights due 
women as mothers of the coming generation, as they 
do to property, breeding of cattle, horses and dogs, the 
lives of women and children, both male and female, 
will become practically devoid of misery, regret and 
loathsome diseases.” 

“There never will be such a law.” The Doctor 
doubted her prediction as much as he admired her 
enthusiasm. 


GLAD RAY 


117 


‘‘There will be, and women will help make it, too. 
The women who have suffered from the sins of their 
grandfathers, fathers and husbands, will see that men 
are morally punished and socially aborted who are not 
on an equal physical footing with their daughters.” 

“It is the women who encourage fast living, and who 
lionize rich men,” interposed the Doctor. 

“Yes, a certain class, whom I call women for the 
want of another name, may cater to infectious, pol¬ 
luted libertines because these men have position or 
wealth. Another class of women cater to vulgar men 
because women are fools to vanity and ignorant of the 
personal risk they run. But, women whose lives have 
not become corrupt from too much near-aristocracy, 
and whose education was not completed at a snob fin¬ 
ishing school after creeping through the eighth grade, 
are the REAL WOMEN living to AID and UPLIFT 
humanity by example and demand. THESE are the 
mothers and girls who will force the aimless, indecent, 
monkey-dinner element to eventually lower their heads 
in shame at their lawless, mugwitted methods. 
THESE are the mothers and girls who will, through 
the ballot and respectable living, force the men of 
loose scruples to cultivate more self-respect and to 
value clean blood in order to share the stimulating 
society of honorable and beautiful women who are 
constantly striving for an equal standard of moral 
ethics.” 

“That is a good subject for intelligent discussion,” 
was Hallaway’s rejoinder. “However, it isn’t becom- 


118 


GLAD RAY 


ing to gentlewomen to rant publicly on these ques¬ 
tions.” 

“I don't see why women should not speak openly in 
defense of their rights as men do of theirs.” Gladys 
drew her beautiful body to its full stately height. 

“You wouldn’t have dared to associate such methods 
with the gentle modesty of your mother or grand¬ 
mother.” 

“No,” replied Gladys, anxious to convince Raymond 
how sacrifice and suffering had changed her views, 
“it was because of the false modesty of our Puritanical 
traditions that we had forced on us a double code of 
moral ethics. Had our gentle mothers and grandmoth¬ 
ers dared to speak the truth or been educated along 
broader lines, our present generation would have been 
healthier because purer blood would have flowed in 
our veins, and blindness and congenital deformities 
would have been less by eighty per cent.” 

“You are interesting, and I’m pleased you are read¬ 
ing live subjects. But, Gladys, do you truly mean you 
desire to give me up?” Hallaway advanced toward 
the door. “That you consider me unworthy?” 

“I am weary of argument; in the name of goodness, 
go. Do you hear? GO!” 

With an expression which indicated his fight was 
far from finished, and with a sweeping glance toward 
the baby, Raymond Hallaway threw wide open the 
door. The light from Gladys’ room flooded the dark 
hallway, exposing two forms stationed there. 


GLAD RAY 


119 


“Good evening, Doctor Hallaway,” and Carston 
Ronning smiled courteously as the two men passed 
each other in the doorway. 

“Good evening, Doctor Hallaway/’ echoed Mrs. Al¬ 
len as she followed Ronning into the room the Doctor 
had just left. 

The Doctor glared at the two intruders but failed to 
respond to their salutations and hurried out of hearing. 

“I think I’ll get the little one’s night clothes, take her 
again to my room, and prepare her for bed,” said Mrs. 
Allen. “You look tired, Mrs. Hall, and this gentle¬ 
man has been waiting some time for a word with you.” 
Mrs. Allen gathered the chubby baby girl in her moth¬ 
erly arms and softly closed the door behind her. 
Gladys and Professor Ronning listened for the famil¬ 
iar sound of the lower door to close behind the Doctor 
as he passed out into the night. 

“Gladys,—my darling, forgive me, but I could not 
help hearing and I was afraid you might be in need of 
protection.” Ronning came close to the side of the 
trembling woman who never appeared more beautiful 
or dependent than at that moment. 

“You heard?—All?” she asked in a half dazed man¬ 
ner. 

“Yes, dear, I heard all. I love you more because of 
the brave attitude you have taken. Please, Gladys, re¬ 
consider your answer.” 

“Tell me, Carston, how did you find me?” 

“After recovering from the shock of your leaving 
me I realized there must be some deplorable trouble 
and followed you. Gladys, now that I know all, can’t 


120 


GLAD RAY 


you-won’t you change your answer?” he pleaded. 

“Impossible, Carston. Your love has come too late. 
The whole course of my life is altered, and others 
must not be burdened with my cross, nor shall I invite 
further trouble for the—baby.” 

“I could love your baby, dear girl. Surely I am 
broad enough,” he argued, “to understand your youth, 
your beauty and impulses, especially since meeting 
Doctor Hallaway, and listening to him.” 

“Please do not talk any more tonight, Carston. I 
am about worn out. Won’t you come tomorrow at 
this hour? We can talk it over.” She looked appeal¬ 
ingly at the artist. 

“Anything you say, dear. I love you too much, and 
truly, to be selfish with you. May I see the baby?” 

Gladys was thankful for an excuse to leave the 
room and relax. 

“Mrs. Allen,” Gladys called softly as she tapped on 
the former’s bedroom door. 

“Yes, dear,” responded a kind voice from within. 

“May I please have my baby to show Professor Ron- 
ning before he leaves? He is going now.” 

“Certainly, Mrs. Hall. The dumplin’ looks so lovely 
as she sleeps. Her golden curls are matted fetchingly 
against her warm cheeks,” and Mrs. Allen laid the 
precious burden in the young mother’s arms. “It’s plain 
to me that you are a good girl.” 

Tears filled Gladys’ eyes as she lifted her face to 
kiss her faithful woman friend goodnight. She then 
carried the little one to her room. 


GLAD RAY 


121 


“My baby, Carston,” and there standing before the 
artist was the Madonna of his dreams. To him there 
was no picture of the Mother Mary to compare with 
this sublime vision in the flesh. Gladys chose a rocker, 
where she rested the curly head against her breast, and 
feasted her eyes on the dimpled innocent. Professor 
Ronning continued to stand silent in wonder and ad¬ 
miration, fearful lest he spoil the spirituality of the 
picture. A chubby pink hand reached out in a rest¬ 
less manner for space. Reverently the artist knelt be¬ 
fore this shrine and softly kissed the tiny warm palm 
which he clasped lightly within his own. 

“Little girl-mother, may I hope some day to protect 
you both?” 

“I cannot give you a final answer tonight, Carston. 
It is impossible to say what I am going to do until I’ve 
had at least a night’s sleep.” Gladys rose and carried 
the baby to its trundle bed. Professor Ronning fol¬ 
lowed hopefully and assisted the modern Madonna as 
she tucked the coverlet about the child. Impulsively 
he caught both her hands within his own. 

“I yearn to kiss you, Gladys, but I won’t until I can 
call you ‘mine’ and have the right. May I surely come 
for your reply tomorrow?” 

“Yes, tomorrow at this same hour,” and Gladys 
smiled wearily as she withdrew her hands. 

“You have convinced me of your love, Carston. 
Goodbye, just for tonight.” 

Goodbye, dearest and bravest.” 


122 


GLAD RAY 


She closed the door quietly, and exhausted, leaned 
against the inner side bewildered by the revelations of 
the last few hours. 


CHAPTER VIII 

J UDGE Thomas Breckenridge reached his office 
exceptionally early to make final preparations 
prior to leaving Louisville to hear a case down state. 
Gladys arrived about the same time, around eight 
A. M. 

“Are you in a hurry, Judge Breckenridge?” Her 
worried expression was quickly changed to one of 
relief as she listened to the lawyer’s kind welcome. 

‘T am delighted, and never in too much of a hurry to 
assist the daughter of your mother.” The Judge’s 
face was wreathed in smiles as he clasped the hand of 
his client. “Now what can I do for you?" He swung 
about in the swivel chair facing his desk, ready for 
business. 

“I want a few questions answered,” she began, “but 
do not know how to ask them. It would have been 
more business like had I made notes.” 

“If it were possible to answer without your asking, 
I would.” Once more the swivel chair right-faced, 
and he looked Gladys frankly in the eye. “I, too, 
have a few inquiries to make, when you have finished. 
For weeks I wanted to see you but work has interfered. 
Now out with your troubles.” 

“Do you think,” Gladys commenced hesitatingly, “if 


123 


124 


GLAD RAY 


t 


I refuse to marry Raymond Hallaway, after becoming 
indifferent to him, I would be doing a moral injury to 
my child?” 

“Do you love Doctor Hallaway, even a little bit?” 
Judge Breckenbridge eyed the young mother kindly, 

“He killed it with his seeming indifference and ugly 
disposition,—and he met another woman.” 

“Even the thought of love for the baby's sake causes 
no emotion ?” the lawyer questioned. 

“I don’t think so,—not now. It is more for the 
baby’s welfare than my own that I feel it wrong to 
endow Doctor Hallaway with the legal power to father 
the child.” 

Gladys had her mother’s expression. As she talked 
of the future of her baby, Mrs. Longworth’s fair face 
appeared more and more vividly before the Judge. 

“Then it certainly would be an injustice to all con¬ 
cerned if you married Raymond Hallaway.” After a 
moment’s hesitation he continued: “Is there any one 
else in whom you are particularly interested?” 

“Not with whom I am in love, if that is what you 
mean,” Gladys replied, somewhat puzzled. “There is 
a young man, a former teacher of painting, who seems 
to be in love with me, and who asked my hand even 
after he understood about the baby.” 

“Did you tell him about the baby of your own 
volition?” 

“No,” hesitatingly, “he overheard the entire conver¬ 
sation when I was sending the Doctor away. It was 
after this Professor Ronning insisted he desired me 
for his wife.” 


GLAD RAY 


125 


“Do you care for him sufficiently to marry him?” 

The fine military bearing of Judge Breckenridge 
caused Gladys to wonder how her mother could have 
resisted him. He was not of massive build, but rather 
medium frame and straight as an arrow. Even as the 
Judge sat back in the swivel chair, waiting for his 
client’s answer, there was a proud reserve about him. 

“I yearn only for a home,” said Gladys, “a spot 
where I can live and be protected, and where I can 
have baby fathered.” 

“I understand your wants, Gladys. Even after bit¬ 
ter experiences you do not fully grasp the impulses of 
men,—particularly young men,” he sighed. 

“Do you think because he is young his present opin¬ 
ions might change?” she asked innocently. 

“Emphatically, yes. Men are only educated beasts 
at best. One young man,” he continued philosophi¬ 
cally, “has the conceit of ten older men, and when en¬ 
raged he is likely to lay the cause of his troubles on 
innocent victims. I don’t say this man—what’s his 
name ?” 

“Ronning,—Professor Carston Ronning,” she ans¬ 
wered with considerable pride. 

“I don’t say this Professor Ronning has a mean 
disposition, for I know nothing about him, but he is 
young, and youth becomes easily distressed and irri¬ 
tated when yokes are thrust about its neck. Youth 
loves conquest and despises the fetters of restriction.” 
For a moment the Judge hesitated so his listener might 
grasp the truth. “What does Ronning do for a living, 
and where does he reside? 


126 


GLAD RAY 


“Well,—he is an artist—a painter of mountain 
scenery, and previously was instructor in oil and water 
colors. He has purchased a ranch out West in the 
mountains, where he lives with his mother.” 

“Yes?” The Judge was deeply interested. 

“Indeed, it must be a wonderful country. Gladys 
gazed out of the open window in a half dreamy 
fashion. 

“When he came back to ask you to be his wife, did 
he know that you have a child?” 

“No,—not until he overheard, and before I could 
tell him about her.” 

“You mean?” 

“Why, my baby,” and Gladys met his inquiry with 
mother pride. 

“Yes, yes, of course. I quite forgot the baby is a 
girl. So, Ronning is an artist?”, the Judge mused 
half aloud, the while running the point of a pencil 
through his thick iron-grey hair. “Do you know that 
real artists—like an instructor and painter of mountain 
scenery must be—are very temperamental, impulsive, 
emotional and even moody?” 

“Do you mean what would please him today might 
be far from his desires tomorrow?” 

“Exactly, dear. He is young and dreams, no doubt, 
of painting the great success of his life. He is artistic, 
—likely temperamental. Persons of too temperamen¬ 
tal a disposition are often too emotinoal to make agree¬ 
able life partners. Artists are loving only when the 
sweet passion of sentiment sways them. The artistic 
of either sex can live on dreams, write poetry, or 


127 


GLAD RAY 

juggle the arts and expect you to share their bread 
and water diet with equanimity. Geniuses, like Pro¬ 
fessor Ronning must be in his youthful generosity, 
seldom turn out lasting or consistent husbands. Now, 
he added kindly, “I am not saying all this to prevent 
you from accepting this offer of marriage, but unless 
you feel you can love him under the stress of an 
artist’s temperament, I wouldn’t advise you to take 
such a step, particularly for the sake of the baby.” 

“I cannot say I love him. In fact I do not.—but I 
do respect him because he has always shown himself 
to be a gentleman.” 

“Wouldn’t any man of good breeding and sense be 
a gentleman?” 

“Yes, I suppose so,—only—only—” 

“Only your hungry little heart is convinced that 
Professor Ronning’s romantic and brave impulse is 
the lasting type of solid sentiment. It may be, dear, 
but I would rather accept a proposal from a man of 
seasoned experience who knows from years of yearning 
and regret just what he desires most in life. Then 
I should also wish to know him intimately.” 

“Thank you, dear friend, for your splendid advice. 
Guess I’ll keep right on coloring postcards and painting 
water colors to make a home for baby and me alone.” 
Gladys arose and expressed her gratitude. 

“I have not yet finished, my child; you quite forget, 
I, too, had a few questions to ask,” and he motioned her 
to the chair she had just vacated. 

“Oh, pardon me; how selfish.” 



128 


GLAD RAY 


“Please do not feel I criticised this young chap. I 
was discussing the impulses of youth,—especially the 
dreamy, artistic fellow who is more positive of his 
likes at twenty or thirty than ten men of fifty would 
dare to be. For example, you have had your affair 
with Doctor Hallaway. As honest as he once seemed 
to be, see what a poor opinion you have of him now. 
Here is this artist who yesterday did not know about 
your motherhood, who today says he wishes both the 
baby and you. No doubt he is sincere today but might 
have serious regrets tomorrow. I tell you, little girl, 
youth—male youth—reminds me of March winds,— 
unreliable.’’ 

“I was reluctant to accept my own judgment, and 
yearned for some one to tell me plain facts. Anyway, 
I refused Professor Ronning’s offer yesterday after¬ 
noon, and practically refused him again last night.” 

“Did you?” Judge Breckenridge smiled broadly. 

“It has been my one wish to rear my daughter in 
some atmosphere other than a rooming house,” and 
Gladys made an ineffectual effort to withdraw her 
hand, which the Judge had continued to hold. With 
her attempt at release the clasp was tightened. 

“I know it is; your good mother would have de¬ 
sired it. Will you listen to a plan?” he ventured. 

“Indeed, yes.” 

“For fifty years I have lived practically alone,” he 
began. “Save the love I gave your dear mother, no 
other affection has entered my life.” 

Gladys was wondering whether the Judge intended 
to found some kind of institution for the friendless. 


GLAD RAY 


129 


“Dozens of times,” he continued in well modulated 
tones, “I have yearned for a home, but no ideal I could 
conceive would be just what I hungered for because 
the woman I most desired could not be a part of the 
picture. Now, little girl, I can’t display the fire and 
jealous spasms of love some of the younger men 
have shown. I can bestow however everlasting loyalty 
and enduring consideration on you and the baby. 
These qualifications may be placed beside any man’s 
offer for cold comparison. I loved your mother, and 
will be true to her kin. I will protect you both, and 
be as tender to you as any man can be. It’s a home 
we both hunger for, and now why not make this home 
together, and live the remainder of our lives for the 
baby ?” 

“Have you thought what such a step might mean to 
you ?” asked Gladys in amazement. She knew the un¬ 
sullied reputation and proud Southern name of the 
man before her, and was dazed at his suggestion. 

“For months this question has been considered un¬ 
til I rather felt that you should receive the message by 
telepathy,” and a kindly smile spread over the Judge’s 
honest face. 

“We do not love each other,—only respect,” and 
her voice was sweet and low with embarrassment. 

“Respect is one of the purest forms of love. With¬ 
out respect one can never truly love,” the jurist re¬ 
plied. 

“We could—I could keep house for you with pro¬ 
priety at least, even if we—if—we did not associate 


130 


GLAD RAY 


much.” The girl was too bewildered to voice her 
thoughts. 

“ ‘Keep house' is not the term, dear. We must be 
married and LIVE under the same roof, and with the 
baby make it a REAL HOME. There would be no 
constrained relations between us.” 

“Oh,” gasped Gladys. “Oh!” she repeated, blush¬ 
ing prettily as visions of sunshine, home, laughter and 
happiness passed rapidly before her mind’s eye. 

“You are too young to live without tenderness and 
attention; while I am along in years, and crave too 
truly for the real type of home and children to make 
my few remaining years a Hell by chafing under the 
bonds of a cold business marriage. A marriage such 
as ours would be an unending blessing to three needy 
souls. We are starving for love and home. You and 
I can give to each other the full satisfaction of a pure 
and perfect union.” 

“You truly respect me—knowing—knowing all?” 
Gladys cried, almost hysterical with joy. 

“Respect you ! Why woman, are you so stunted that 
one repented or regretted act would cause you to lower 
your head in shame for the rest of your life? Re¬ 
member, it is not so much the sin, as it is how the sin 
lowers you and impairs your self-respect that counts. 
It is how you profit by the bitter experience of your 
sins which prove whether or not you have had suf¬ 
ficient punishment. Some of our greatest men and 
women would be unknown today were it not for the 
pain of a mistake tingling their sensibilities, creating a 
desire for different surroundings, and awakening am- 


GLAD RAY 


131 


bition. After the tears of repentance—following error 
—are wiped away by honest determination, we can 
become saints of humility, students of patience, and 
respected citizens. I am NOT condoning sin; far 
from it,—but I do desire to prove to you that it is 
wicked to remain in an atmosphere of remorse after 
we have once discovered our error. It is a crime to 
darken your future because of a bitter mistake. Men 
have sinned a hundred times more than you and still 
society embraces them for their wit, talents, or for 
their tainted money. Why should society pet the 
beast and ignore the suffering ewe?” 

“I wonder if I am awake.” Tears dropped on 
Gladys’ flushed cheeks. “This seems too good to be 
true,” she added. 

“It seems beyond my greatest hopes too, dear; but 
neither one of us is sleeping. We are living in an 
age of progress. Equal justice, moral equality, and 
higher education are coming before your time is fin¬ 
ished. I may not live to see this Elysium, but you 
and the baby will. I am far from a saint. How then 
dare I demand a state of saintliness I cannot give? A 
real MAN will be grateful for, but not demand, that 
which he has not its equivalent to offer. If you had 
ten children born out of wedlock, at least you are 
not the sneaking abortionist and murderer of your 
unborn babes that many married women have been, 
because their sins are covered by the protecting mantle 
of the marriage sacrament. “Yes,” the Judge repeated 
earnestly, “if you had ten children born out of wed¬ 
lock, you are not the diseased criminal that the wealthy 


132 


GLAD RAY 


social lion of the hour is, who, year after year frequents 
the brothel one night and calls on innocent daughters 
of selfishly ambitious parents the next. 

“No, Gladys, I will take you on an equal footing and 
ieel honored that you stoop to my level.” 

“You? Honored? I cannot burden any one with 
my misfortunes. It would lower you professionally, 
and bring discredit to your good family name.” 

“Is it no credit to be as sacrificing a mother as you 
have been?” the Judge asked. 

“I have tried to prove worthy of my baby, and be 
a good mother, but there has been little to encourage 
me and only hopes. Until now, nothing appeared sub¬ 
stantial or plausible.” 

“Have you forsaken all your friends of the old 
days ?” 

“Yes,” she sighed, “I dreaded to see their tell-tale 
faces, or let them see mine.” 

“You need not dread it any longer, believe me. I 
will stand by you, with your consent, and the very life 
we lead and the attitude we assume will soon convince 
some of the gossips they must bow with honor to the 
little girl, who, like the Magdalene of old, suffered 
much and was scorned. Yet later, Magdalene became 
strong and spiritually beautiful in her redeemed life.” 

“It seems to me that you understand the philosophy 
of living and how to let live, better than—” 

“Better than younger men, dear? Now, Gladys 
Longworth, I want you to come right down to a final 
answer. Even without the pet names and the dreams 
of mountain scenery, will you accept my worldly goods 


GLAD RAY 


133 


and call them yours ? May I rush over and get the 
license now ?” 

Possibly another girl might have lowered her eyes 
and made a pretense at timidly accepting, but not so 
Gladys Longworth. Her surprise was genuine, and 
her answer rang equally true. 

“Worldly goods! License! Now? Do you hon¬ 
estly mean right this minute?” Her countenance 
beamed with unaffected joy. 

“Yes, dear, why not? What is the use of waiting? 
Today is better than tomorrow, and you can have the 
rest of this week and next to pack, as I shall not re¬ 
turn until two weeks from the coming Monday. I 
have already left my affairs in such shape that in case 
of my death, you will receive all I have. 

“Judge Breckenridge!” she gasped. 

“No, not 'J u ^ge’ any more,—just Tom if you 
please.” 

“I can’t say that, but I can call you a little nickname 
I’ve always thought applied particularly to you. In 
Glerman it is spelled ‘T-r-e-u’ meaning loyal, and is 
pronounced as though it were spelled ‘T-r-o-y.’ I have 
always called you ‘mein lieber Herr Treu,’ and that 
word would be perfectly natural to me. How do you 
like it ‘Treu ?’ ” 

“It is too good for me, you lovable girl,” and he 
kissed the hand grown warm within his. “However, 
if you say ‘Treu’ is my name for keeps, then it is 
splendid,” and he laughed merrily at their happy be¬ 
ginning. “By the way, you have not told me to go for 


134 


GLAD RAY 


the license. Shall I?” He almost whispered the 
question. 

“It might as well he now,” and Gladys blushed 
sweetly as they both rose and stood looking with 
searching longing into each other’s eyes. 

“Please God may I always prove worthy of my 
charge,” and the steel grey eyes of the man fairly 
beamed with joy as he drew the fair face to his, kissing 
softly and tenderly her warm, trembling lips. “Dear, 
hungry child, you’ll soon be in your own home with 
your flock. My ! Surely you will feel ancient mother¬ 
ing an old fellow like me. In five minutes I’ll re¬ 
turn,” and before Gladys could reply he was gone for 
the license. 

Gladys scarcely had time to realize what was going 
to happen or what Doctor Hallaway and Professor 
Ronning would say, before Judge Breckenridge 
bounded into the office like a school boy, bringing 
Judge Dibbell, an old friend to tie the knot. 

After the introduction the visiting Judge relieved 
the strain by suggesting the ceremony begin at once, 
calling in two other lawyers, with offices on the same 
floor. 

Thomas Breckenridge slipped his arm about his 
smiling bride-to-be and whispered : “Are you willing, 
dear?” 

By way of answer, Gladys laid her hand in his with 
an air of perfect confidence. Judge Dibbell was very 
considerate and made his part both impressive and 
brief. Immediately after congratulations, the visitors 
left the bride and groom alone. 


GLAD RAY 


135 


“Little wife—at last,” and the strong arms gathered 
the beautiful girl within their embrace, while an un¬ 
seen spirit seemed to bestow a benediction upon the 
happy scene. '‘I feel your dear mother is pleased,” 
and once more he kissed his bride. 

“Yes, Treu, she must be thankful that baby and I 
are safe at last,” Tears fell softly through the smiles. 
“I know why my mother did not accept you,—it just 
came to me.” 

“Why?” inquired the Judge with surprise. 

“Just to leave you for me,” she replied timidly. 

“I guess you are right, little wife-of-my-heart.” 

There was dignity and intensity during this feast 
of love. To Thomas Breckenridge, the sublime pas¬ 
sion, so long deprived of expression, soared to exalted 
heights in portraying the ecstasy of sacred freedom. 
As for Gladys, the privilege of truly possessing a 
trusted and esteemed protector appealed to her noblest 
ideals of womanhood, and at life’s most sanctified 
moment her tortured heart thankfully accepted the 
joy of at last being cherished with unselfishness and 
loyalty. 

“It almost appals me,—these changes of the last 
thirty-six hours.” Gladys nestled close to the vener¬ 
able jurist. 

“It seems perfectly natural to me. From the time 
you were a small child I felt, to some extent, it was 
my duty to look after you. Later, when you become 
a woman and endured several bitter hardships I was 
positive if you would only permit I could throw my 
whole soul into being responsible for baby and you.” 

His generosity so overwhelmed Gladys that words 


136 


GLAD RAY 


of appreciation would not come. Tears fairly rained 
from her beautiful eyes, until the Judge suddenly 
realized this kind of honeymoon would never do. 

“Tut, tut, little wife! Let me kiss those tears away, 
and may they never visit you again while I live.” In¬ 
stantly, irresistible smiles appeared in response to his 
loving efforts. “Now, I am going to be like the rude 
boy after a fine dinner,—eat and run. Before I forget 
it, take this.” The Judge handed Gladys their mar¬ 
riage certificate and a check for three hundred dol¬ 
lars. “See that our baby is in fine condition for the 
shock. I’ll write you tomorrow and, if it can be ar¬ 
ranged, have you take a run down to St. Louis where 
you can meet me for a few days’ wedding trip. All 
this if I can get another jurist to take my place.” 

“Oh, that would be lovely. I can leave the baby 
with Mrs. Allen and—” 

“We will ask Mrs. Allen,” he unconsciously inter¬ 
rupted, “to keep house for us when we return if it is 
agreeable. Possibly her income is such she might be 
delighted.” 

“That would be splendid. I’ll not mention my mar¬ 
riage to any one for the time being, particularly Mrs. 
Allen, if you please.” 

“Very well, little wife; suit your own dear self. 
We must rush now as I have but twenty-five minutes 
to catch the train.” 

As they walked rapidly along, Gladys wondered 
whether the joy in her heart was visible in the smiles 
which she suppressed with difficulty. 

“Here is the car, Gladys,—wife.” Judge Brecken- 


GLAD RAY 


137 


ridge kissed the trembling lips. “Heaven is just be¬ 
gun :—our heaven is just begun. When we meet next 
time I will have a ring or two for you. Au revoir, 
brave little wife. Thank God, you are mine.” He 
pressed the responsive hand within both of his. 

“Goodbye, my Treu,—goodbye.” 

After the surface car had turned the corner into 
another street, the happy bride walked slowly toward 
her room with the satisfying assurance that wifehood 
brings. 


CHAPTER IX. 


M RS. Allen was playing “Bean porridge hot and 
bean porridge cold” with the baby whose peals 
of laughter were distinctly heard by Gladys as she 
ascended the stairs. There was a sense of satisfaction 
as the young mother reasoned that within a month the 
baby would have a lovely spacious yard, and the cares 
of both Mrs. Allen and herself would be few, indeed. 
The happy bride found two letters. The supreme joy 
of the morning made such a matter as correspondence 
appear insignificant compared to dreams and aspira¬ 
tions of the mother-heart for the future of her baby. 
Gladys tore open the letter in Doctor Hallaway’s 
familiar handwriting, and read:— 


Dear Gladys: Yes, more than that. You are and always 
will be, my hope, my strength, my soul’s one love, and 
life itself to me. Forgive me if at any time I have done 
wrong or hurt your sensitive heart. You stunned me 
completely when you sent me from you last night. For 
the sake of the baby, the love I feel for you, and the love 
you surely hold for me as the father of your child and 
your first love, let me be to you now, what I have al¬ 
ways promised to be. The time has come when I can 
prove all things. Stella died this morning at 6:15. Will, 
you keep your promise, dear? 

I have selected my location here in Louisville, and we 
can be married any minute. M!y internship expires the 
tenth of June; possibly you prefer to wait until after that 
date. It is my desire to begin fair and square. I want 
you for my own legal wife, as you have always been 
spiritually. There is also a father’s natural desire to 

138 


GLAD RAY 


139 


possess his own little daughter. I worship you, Gladys, 
and can hardly wait until you answer. 

The eleventh of June sounds good for the ceremony. 
Have everything absolutely quiet so none of the former 
law relatives hear of it. Secure whomever you please 
to read the service. 

Yours always, 

P. S. Address as usual. Raymond. 

Gladys leaned back in her chair trembling. Mrs. 
Allen noticed how pale she had become, and brought a 
tumbler of water, making eager inquiry. 

“This is news that came too late. It is both good 
and bad. I am powerless, and cannot aid the writer.” 
Gladys endeavored to conceal her nervousness. After 
a few moments she reached for her scissors and clipped 
the top edge of the second envelope which contained 
a letter from Professor Ronning written with unsteady 
hand on Holman Hospital stationery: 

Beloved: Forgive me for not being able to keep my ap¬ 
pointment this evening, but last night I became very ill 
with severe pain in my lower right side. I called in 
Doctor Crown, and he insisted that an immediate opera¬ 
tion was necessary. Am now at the Hospital waiting my 
turn to use operating room. Feel rather shaky, as I have 
had nothing to eat since my last evening’s meal. Will be 
conscious by i :oo P. M. today, so the Doctor says, and he 
has given me permission to have you sit by me at that 
hour for a short period. Hope most earnestly you re¬ 
ceive this note in time. Will go under the ether with 
your dear face in mind, and trust to truly see you when 
I awaken. With my sincerest love, 

Faithfully, 

Carston. 

“So much has happened in my short life, Mrs. Allen, 
that it wouldn't surprise me very much were I to hear 
I was to be executed,” and Gladys tried to laugh, but it 
was forced and unnatural. 


140 


GLAD RAY 


“My dear, don’t laugh so wildly; it isn’t like you. 
Please calm yourself. Do you have to go out this 
afternoon?,” Mrs. Allen asked. 

“Indeed, it is rather important that I go for an hour 
or so, if you will accept payment.” Her voice was so 
forced and suddenly strange that Mrs. Allen decided 
some future time would be preferable to discuss finan¬ 
cial arrangements. 

“Just as you say, Mrs. Hall, but your baby is no 
bother. It is lonesome here without companionship. I 
have only three living relatives of my own, but I have 
several law relatives.” 

“Sometimes too many relatives are a bore; then 
again they prove themselves a necessary nuisance. I 
will make some proposition whereby you will always 
be with baby and me, if you desire. It is impossible to 
explain now.” The bride blushed and smiled at the 
thought of her secret. 

“I should be so happy to live with you. Your cour¬ 
age is admirable, and I love both you and your baby,” 
confessed the older woman, wondering what had hap¬ 
pened to cause the peculiar change of expression. 

Immediately, Gladys hurried away to Ronning’s bed¬ 
side. As the patient opened his eyes Gladys half 
commanded: 

“Hush, Carston, or they won’t permit me to sit here. 
I promised the Doctor not to say a word to make you 
talk.” Gladys was visibly agitated by the change in 
the artist’s appearance. 

“I’ll promise to keep perfectly quiet if you’ll just say 


GLAD RAY 


141 


‘Yes.’ Everything depends on your answer to my 
question of last night. I can’t wait,—please—please— 
Gladys—” 

Ronning’s voice became very faint, and his special 
nurse bent low as she whispered, gently but fimrlv: 
“Mr. Ronning, if you insist on speaking, against the 
Doctor’s orders, your friend will have to go.” 

Relieved that she was not compelled to answer the 
patient’s question while he was in such a physical 
crisis, Gladys glanced approvingly at the nurse, and 
looked straight into the large brown eyes of Betty 
Walker. Nurse Betty did not recognize the visitor. 
After that fatal afternoon’s discovery, Gladys could 
scarcely forget the petite brunette with her dimpled 
face and baby smile. Both women remained silent. 
Betty was writing on the history pad, and Gladys con¬ 
tinued watching the sufferer’s changes of expression. 

“I think possibly you better come again tomorrow. 
He will be stronger then,” tactfully suggested the 
nurse. 

‘‘Don’t go, Gladys, Ell be dumb,” urged the incon¬ 
sistent patient, trying to smile. 

“It is the Doctor’s orders, Carston. I must obey for 
your own good.” She took his feverish hands in hers 
for a moment, wishing she might have the ordeal of 
her answer over. 

“Very well, if the nurse persists in carrying out that 
order, she doesn’t love me, that’s all.” 

The two watchers smiled sympathetically. After all, 
the artist was like most men when in physical pain, 


142 


GLAD RAY 


only a boy at heart and needed tenderness, petting, and 
not a little flattery. 

“Let me introduce you to your nurse, so you will be 
better friends. Professor Carston Ronning,—Miss 
Betty Walker,” and Gladys glanced at Betty for an 
instant. Carston’s face brightened and his eyes opened 
wide. 

“Will you pardon me, but how did you know my 
name was ‘Betty Walker ?’ ” inquired the nurse. 

“Oh, a little bird told me, and I was delighted that 
you could be ‘special’ on this, particular case, as Pro¬ 
fessor Ronning is most appreciative of conscientious 
care,” Gladys replied sweetly. “Goodbye, Carston: I 
will either come tomorrow or you will receive a letter 
from me,” and Gladys withdrew her hand with dif¬ 
ficulty. 

“Goodbye, my friend; come tomorrow if possible. 
You know it will be quite necessary to have some one 
to confide in if my nurse becomes cross.” 

Betty silenced her patient by laying her cool left 
hand across his hot forehead, and touching the delicate 
fingers of the right hand to his parched lips in a half 
motherly way,—a method Ronning wished she would 
frequently repeat. If there was one thing more than 
another acceptable to Carston Ronning, it was being 
petted when he felt miserable. After Gladys left, the 
artist relapsed into a much needed sleep, and for sev¬ 
eral hours his faithful nurse watched and waited. 

During the next five days patient and nurse became 
fast friends, and Carston learned he had to be obedient 
to Doctor Crown’s orders. 


GLAD RAY 


143 


“Any mail for me, Miss Betty?” 

“Yes, Professor Ronning, one letter which came two 
or three days ago, but the Doctor thought best to with¬ 
hold it until today/' and the nurse handed him the cov¬ 
eted missive. 


My dear and tried Friend:—You were tried, and found 
“not wanting.” You are near and dear, and always will 
be. It was so pitiful to see you ill today. You looked 
so lonely until Miss Walker, with her lovely dimpled 
smile, proved herself capable of being sufficient com¬ 
pany. I do not worry over you very much with one of 
her ability on the case. It appears to me everything 
should go along smoothly, and I sincerely trust that you 
will have a speedy recovery, and a future of health and 
happiness. 

Now that you have little Betty nursing you, of whom 
you have heard Doctor Hallaway and me speak, perhaps 
you can do a genuine kindness and prevent Doctor Hal¬ 
laway from too intimate friendship with Betty. Betty is 
another lovely young flower, and no doubt believes in his 
fasciating words, and has possibly already lost her head, 
only later to wither in shame when she comes to realize 
the insincerity of all unscrupulous men. Save her, Car- 
ston! Save her if you can, and as quietly as possible 
for her dear sake. 

As for marriage between you and me,—dear boy, let us 
forget we ever hoped for that sacrament. It is better 
for you and better for me. I cannot marry you now, or 
at any time in the future. My mind is definitely settled 
on this question, but I always desire your respect and 
wish to retain your friendship. Please do not urge me 
or mention this delicate subject between us again. 

Although I shall be unable to visit you at the Hospital, 
any letter you may desire to write will reach me in care 
of my lawyer, whose address you already have. Am go¬ 
ing out of the city by the time you are permitted to re¬ 
ceive your mail, to be gone several days. Goodbye, my 
dear friend. I wish you abundant happiness in the years 
to come. 

Always, 


Gladys. 


144 


GLAD RAY 


For a few moments Carston lay as one in a stupor. 
Again he read the letter. Again he closed his eyes. 
He was bitterly disappointed. Since Gladys had the 
poor little babe, he thought possibly she understood its 
requirements better than he. No doubt she had de¬ 
cided to marry the Doctor. All he had left was her 
sincere request to save Betty. He didn’t see how he 
could go about warning the girl but possibly an open¬ 
ing would present itself. Betty busied herself about 
the room, then sat down to read to him from his favor¬ 
ite author, Cooper. Ronning only half heard. He was 
thinking about Gladys and her decision; about Doctor 
Hallaway and his dual life; about whether it took 
courage or cowardice to abide by one’s unconventional 
ideals when one practiced them seriously; and about 
the danger to which dimpled Betty “of the sweet voice 
and merry laughter” was constantly subjected al¬ 
though oblivious to her peril. 

“You are not listening to a word I am reading,” and 
Betty’s mouth puckered into an irresistible bow. 

“If you twist your lips like that again I’ll nip them 
off and tuck them under my pillow for safe-keeping,” 
and the artist laughed heartily as he watched her em¬ 
barrassment. 

“Are they so funny when I pout?” Betty marked 
the place in the book before she closed the cover. 

“Not funny, but beautiful. Don’t let any one ever 
touch them, Miss Betty, unless you positively know he 
is truly worthy.” Ronning sighed as he remembered 
the task Gladys had given him. 

“I may look a bit frivolous but my lips and kisses 


GLAD RAY 


145 


so far, have been beyond reach and price.” Betty 
walked over to the window and looked out on the joint 
Hospital and College campus with a wistful expression 
in her large fawn-like brown eyes. 

“Don’t change your decision, unless you are morally 
satisfied that the right man has arrived. Even then 
it might not be such a bad plan to investigate his past 
a bit before you permit small liberties,” and Ronning 
looked steadily at the lovely brunette as the latter kept 
her gaze on the campus. 

“You would cage a vivacious girl and never permit 
her an opportunity of selecting her mate, I’m afraid.” 
Betty faced her patient. 

“You wrong me. I wish to imply that there are few 
men as pure as most women. There should be an equal 
standard, but there isn’t,—mainly because match-mak¬ 
ing parents sell their most precious wares, and society 
as a whole caters to the blase. Diseased children are 
often brought into this world because of the selfish 
aspirations of relatives,—particularly parents, or the 
impulsive desires of a girl’s vanity and her social am¬ 
bition. Most mothers will consider their daughters 
well matched if they marry position, means, and a long 
family name, no matter how much disease or insanity 
is hidden in the family closet. An honest, ambitious, 
pure-blooded farmer would be considered a disgraceful 
match for the majority of our talented girls; but a half 
demented, degraded libertine with polished manners 
and a remnant of a crown on his hollow pate will be 
wined and dined by our so-called best families, and 
sought after as a splendid ‘catch’ for an unsophisti- 


146 


GLAD RAY 


cated girl. There is seldom,” concluded the artist, 
“much consideration given to the unborn.” 

“Are you a champion of eugenics ?,” asked the nurse. 

“Yes, particularly concerning physical and moral 
proclivities. The mental will take care of itself if there 
is nothing to impair the moral and physical growth. A 
stupid person’s ambition is lax, his principles limp, be¬ 
cause his general health is ansemic. Of course it does 
not always ring true that because a man’s physical 
health is perfect his mentality is the same. Some of our 
greatest criminals are superb physical specimens. 
However, the very least we can will to our offspring 
is pure blood, perfect health, a clear brain and clean 
morals.” 

“You have talked too long now, and I have been 
guilty of permitting it because every word was inter¬ 
esting.” Betty drew the shade and prepared her pa¬ 
tient for a short rest. “After you have had a good 
sleep and some nourishment, I’ll read to you.” 

“Thank you, little boss,” and he pressed the dimpled 
hand as it smoothed the covers. 

“Are you comfortable?” 

“Not mentally.” Ronning looked up with a per¬ 
ceptible sadness in his expression. 

“What worries you, Mr. Ronning?” 

“You are not angry that I lectured a bit on my pet 
theory?” He reached for Betty’s hand once more. 

“Certainly not. It was difficult to realize, but pos¬ 
itively true.” She pretended not to notice his friendly 
advances. 


GLAD RAY 


147 


“Not angry? Honest?” 

“Honest.” For an instant Betty looked the picture 
of seriousness, then all of a sudden her sweet voice 
rang out in musical trills of bird-like laughter as she 
clasped his extended fingers. 

“I bet you saw my hand all the time,—you-of-the- 
wonderful voice, only you just wanted to tease me a 
minute.” 

“I bet that too. You are only a splendid big boy 
after all. Everyone needs petting and a bit of teasing 
once in a while, and it is your turn now.” 

“You little hypnotist!” Carston Ronning made an 
effort to draw her hand to his eager lips, but just at 
the opportune moment, Betty spoiled his gallantry by 
slipping gracefully away. 

“Will you be good now, and sleep awhile?” 

“I’ll try.” Ronning thought it rather unreasonable 
to expect patients to sleep when there were so many 
beautiful nurses, like good fairies, fluttering about. 

\l/ '•is 

/}% »|» '}* 

For the fifth time Gladys read her first letter as the 
wife of Judge Breckenridge, addresed on the outside to 
Mrs. Hall, for fear of too many explanations. The 
letter proper, began and was signed just as her yearn¬ 
ing soul would have it: 


148 


GLAD RAY 


-, Ky. 

Little Wife-of-my Heart1 tried to tell you yesterday 
how sweet it is to know that I am responsible, for your 
future and the baby’s. The fact you are my wife makes 
me more conscientious in listening to cases, and gives me 
greater assurance when making a decision. I have at 
last a LIVING REASON to desire success. Y ou are 
also wanted and needed by someone who always has 
cared. This is a great comfort, and stimulates my old 
bones with youth’s ambition. There is nothing I am able 
to provide but is yours at command. 

I shall be finished with this special session of court 
on Saturday. This is a dull town, and I prefer St. Louis, 
my next stop, where I want you to join me. Will you 
leave on the i :55 P. M. train, Sunday, direct from Louis¬ 
ville to St. Louis via the-R. R.? M ! y train arrives 

ten minutes later than yours; so I will meet you in the 
large general waiting room upstairs, as soon as I reach 
St. Louis. 

Have M!rs. Allen care for the baby, and offer her 
proper compensation for her services. Pack all your be¬ 
longings so that when we return to Louisville all we shall 
need to do is to ’phone for an expressman to call for 
them. We can occupy my present home until you select 
something more to your liking. The colored housekeeper, 
who is caring for the house now, has been with me for 
fifteen years, but we will have room for and need of 
your friend, Mrs. Allen, too. What say you, dear? 

You must notice how devoid this letter is of “gush.” 
The loving terms I may use I mean, and those I yearn 
to use will come naturally with time. As much as I dream 
of you by night, and long to have you close to me by day, 
there is no desire to be selfish for one moment. If you 
prefer to remain in Louisville and await my return, do 
so; but it will make me mighty happy to have you alone 
for a few days in St. Louis. Do not trouble to write or 
wire, as I am confident my wishes are yours. Will see 
you as per directions, in upstairs general waiting room. 
Don’t miss the hour, the train or the date, which will get 
you there early Monday morning. 

Holding you close to me, tenderly, truly, I am always 

Your loving husband, 

“Treu.” 




GLAD RAY 


149 


Even though it was “devoid of gush” there was the 
ring of truth in every line, and Gladys appreciated be¬ 
ing truly “ wanted ” at last. Mrs. Allen was delighted 
to care for the baby, and accepted the generous salary 
Gladys offered. 

“In case anything should happen to me, Mrs. Allen, 
—which I hardly think possible—but in case it should, 
I have a solid gold locket and chain here which I 
wish kept and given to my baby when she is old 
enough to appreciate them.” 

Mrs. Allen turned the locket about several times and 
at last made out the inscription: 

“GLAD RAY 
FROM 
MOTHER” 

“Is the baby’s right name ‘Ray,’ Mrs. Hall?” 

“Not exactly. Should anything happen to me, I 
presume she would fare as well with the name of ‘Glad 
Ray’ as any other,” and Gladys noticed the mystified 
look of Mrs. Allen. “Mrs. Allen,” confided the 
younger woman, “I took the first syllable of my first 
name, ‘Gladys/ and the first syllable of her own fath¬ 
er’s name, ‘Raymond,’ and conceived the name of 
‘Glad Ray.’ When I marry, my husband must adopt 
her and give my baby a legal name. Rather than have 
Doctor Hallaway ever possess her, or even recognize 
the child in case of my death, I thought for the time 
being the name of ‘Glad Ray’ would suffice.” 


150 


GLAD RAY 


“Thank you for your confidence, my child. It gives 
me a better chance to defend you and your baby should 
the day come when any one would make trouble.” 

“There is nothing of real value in my iron trunk, but 
I desire my own paintings saved which might be price¬ 
less to the baby some day. Will you please see to this 
for ‘Glad Ray’ in case anything happens to me ?” 

“I will, Mrs. Hall.” 

Gladys kissed the heavily lined forehead of her kind 
friend. 

“May I venture one question?” 

“Certainly, Mrs. Allen.” 

“Do you intend to marry the tall young artist?” 

“Positively, no! However, I do intend to announce 
my marriage in the course of time, but to no one you 
ever have seen. In the meanwhile protect my baby 
and know that my heart’s blood throbs in her delicate 
body.” 

Gladys took the beautiful child in her arms, hold¬ 
ing her close to the mother-heart as she kissed the 
golden curls and innocent mouth again and again. 

“What if Doctor Hallaway calls, or demands the 
baby?” asked Mrs. Allen anxiously. 

“I have gone away. You do not know where. This 
is the truth.” 

“What if he demands the baby?” she repeated. 

“You can tell him that I employed you to care for 
the child temporarily, and as there is no way he can 
prove she is his, unless he has either my verbal or 
written statement to that effect, he cannot touch her.” 



“GLADYS TOOK THE BEAUTIFUL CHILD IN HER ARMS” 

















GLAD RAY 


151 


“He may not come near,” the older woman sug¬ 
gested. 

“Yes, he will; you do not know his persistency. A 
reply to his letter received this morning which came 
too late, will bring him here like a raging beast. 

“Should he ask me her name, what shall I tell him ?” 

“Above all things, do not permit him to know I have 
called her ‘Glad Ray.’ You can say truthfully she has 
no name.” 

“You will have no cause to worry. I have given 
my promise, and will keep it. ‘Glad Ray’ will be safe 
with me; this upon my word of honor.” 

During the next two days the joyful bride destroyed 
all articles she did not care to give away. She packed 
the iron trunk neatly, then placed a note she had writ¬ 
ten to her child on the top of the tray, carefully pin¬ 
ning it to a bit of lace. Gladys did not know why she 
had written such a foolish letter. She seemed impelled 
by a strange force to write and in the missive she 
poured out her heart, telling the child the secret of her 
birth. Her desire was to leave an evidence, at least, of 
a mother’s devotion should anything happen to her 
while she was away. 

At last the iron trunk was securely locked, and Mrs. 
Allen given one of the keys which would reveal the 
humble legacy and secret of ‘Glad Ray’s’ birth. The 
other key Gladys kept. Mrs. Allen understood that 
‘Glad Ray’ was not to be given the trunk, neither was 
she to be permitted to open it, until she was eighteen 
years of age, and then only in case of her mother’s 


GLAD RAY 


152 

death. Mrs. Allen made personal notes to this effect. 
Later, that Saturday night, both women laughed at the 
precaution. The last duty of Gladys, after listening to 
‘Glad Ray’ lisp her little prayer, and kissing the sleepy 
eyelids, was to write this farewell letter to Doctor 
Hallaway:— 


Dear Raymond: Thank you for your proposal of mar¬ 
riage, but after considering seriously our absolute incm- 
patibility of temperament, I beg to refuse your offer. 
There is no further need of argument either verbally or in 
writing, as I have given my final answer. You will never 
know how difficult this has been to decide. In memory 
of the hours that were, may every hour of the future be 
one of progress and professional success. 

Very truly, 

Gladys Longworth. 

The following afternoon, Sunday, just before taking 
the train for St. Louis, Gladys mailed her letter to the 
Doctor. It landed in the bottom of the post-box with 
a thud. Her only hope was that the truth of her words 
would strike home with like force. 

“All aboard,” and the colored porter lifted the small 
step into the Limited’s vestibule. 

There was a wealth of smiles in the heart of Gladys 
as she started alone on the first part of her wedding 
journey. Though she did not possess, at this time, the 
discretion of more mature years, nor the justice of a 
more experienced woman, at least there were no re¬ 
grets,—only a sense of rest and peace as she thought 
how happy her dear mother would be, could she but 
see the satisfied wife of loyal Tom Breckenridge. 


GLAD RAY 


153 


“Train is several hours behind schedule, Miss,” and 
the weary information clerk sighed as he answered the 
same question for the fiftieth time. Everybody in the 
big station appeared to be waiting for the delayed 
“Limited.” 

Gladys was becoming more and more nervous as she 
walked from one large window to another. Every 
minute seemed an hour. Since she had passed a wake¬ 
ful night, the station matron suggested Gladys lie 
down on one of the long benches, where she fell asleep. 

“Telegram for Mrs. Thomas Breckenridge,” called 
a shrill-voiced messenger boy. 

Several times Gladys vaguely heard the coarse nasal 
tones. She was not expecting a telegram, and sleep 
proved a blessing to her weary body. 

“Telegram for Mrs. Thomas Breckenridge.” 

Slowly Gladys opened her eyes as though she had 
been dreaming. 

“I beg your pardon,—the name? Possibly the mes¬ 
sage is for me.” She sat up, half dazed. 

Insolently the messenger made a megaphone of his 
hands, calling in deafening voice: “Telegram for Mrs. 
Thomas Breckenridge!” 

“I’ll sign it; it’s mine.” cried Gladys excitedly. 

“T’anks.” The boy grabbed the tip Gladys offered 
him after she had signed his worn receipt book. She 
read: 

“Washout—delayed several hours—Don’t worry—posi¬ 
tively arrive tonight—Remain waiting room for fear 

separation—Love. 

Trcu.” 


154 


GLAD RAY 


Gladys sighed in relief, and once more made her¬ 
self comfortable, snuggling under the folds of her 
traveling coat which she used as a blanket, and was 
soon asleep. 

About eleven-thirty P. M., Thomas Breckenridge 
rocked slowly back and forth beside his beautiful wife 
who had not yet awakened. 

It was fully an hour before Gladys turned a little, 
opening her eyes as she changed her position. In as¬ 
tonishment she cried aloud: 

“Treu! My own Treu!” Before she could arise 
Thomas Breckenridge had clasped her in his arms. 

“Darling! Little wife! My, but I am glad to see 
you. Seems like an eternity, doesn't it?" He kissed 
his bride several times. “Come, let me get your bag¬ 
gage together so we can have a few hours’ rest be¬ 
fore starting out to see the town.” 

It did not take Gladys long to arrange her belong¬ 
ings, and soon they were on their way. 

“Planters Hotel,” and the proud husband assisted 
his wife into a waiting cab. 

“At last we’re on the way,” she laughed. 

“Glad to be with me, dear?” The gallant lover 
slipped his arm about his young bride as they rode 
along. 

“Too happy for words,” Gladys responded as she 
rested her warm cheek against his and patted his face 
with a gentle touch so yearned for by the groom. 

The following day the Judge called up some old 
friends—Mr. and Mrs. Fritz Hubert out on Lafayette 
Avenue—whom he had known for several years and 


GLAD RAY 


155 


for whom he had won an important case before he had 
been appointed Judge. The verdict had meant thou¬ 
sands of dollars to his clients. They were eager to 
see him again, and to meet Mrs. Breckenridge, insist¬ 
ing the honeymooners come out for at least a week. 
They had one son whom they had named for the 
Judge, and this fact influenced the jurist to accept 
their invitation. After two weeks seeing the sights 
and taking a few short trips to various towns along 
the Mississippi, each becoming more and more in love 
with the other, the happy couple went to the hospitable 
home of the Huberts. That night the Judge wrote to 
Louisville to make arrangements for an extended stay. 
Gladys sent a check for twice the the amount due to 
Mrs. Allen in payment for her care of “Glad Ray.” 
Each hour was more wonderful to Gladys than the 
preceding one. She could scarcely imagine such hap¬ 
piness really existed for her poor hungry soul. 
Thomas Breckenridge became years younger from the 
joy of being loved. The days passed too rapidly, and 
time scarcely permitted the lovers to enjoy the com¬ 
plete program they had mapped out for their wedding 
journey. 


CHAPTER X 


B ETTY dusted and set the room in order as Carston 
Ronning packed. 

“It is the last of June, and six weeks since I entered 
this Hospital, Miss Betty, and unlike most patients I 
regret leaving.” Ronning glanced up from his pack¬ 
ing but Betty continued her work. “Do you ever 
miss your patients?” The artist sat on the edge of 
the center table, near the nurse. 

“Sometimes” Betty’s voice was soft and low. 
“Please put down your dust-distributor and tell me 
whether you will give me a second thought.” 
“Perhaps,” she answered almost in a whisper. 
“Haven’t our little talks—our spiritual confessions, 
as it were—made any impression on you, Betty?” 

“Please answer some of your own questions. Men 
are funny. They want to find out everything in a 
woman’s mind, and in exchange tell her just enough 
to arouse her curiosity.” Betty reached for the duster, 
but her hand was arrested by Ronning’s. 

“You dimpled kiddy! Now don’t be angry because 
I shook your pinnacle of professional dignity. To me 
you are two women in one. The most attractive is 
your dimpled, kiddy self; but a close second is Nurse 
Betty.” 


156 


GLAD RAY 


157 


“I’m not angry. Your opinion of me is quite sin¬ 
cere, no doubt; but I would like to be known as some¬ 
one more attractive than a woman with dimples.” 

“You are,—you alluring bit of feminine vanity. I 
suppose you doubt my seriousness. Please remember 
I said ‘alluring,’ so surely your anger won’t be lasting.” 

“Do you think all women are vain?” Betty thought 
she had a right to ask some questions. 

“Yes, to a greater or lesser degree, or they would 
not be attractive.” Ronning believed he understood 
the mysteries of analyses a la feminine. 

“Well,” Betty remarked, “it must be admitted 
women are no more given to vanity than men are 
prone to conceit.” Throwing back her head with a 
comical expression on her pretty round face, she 
laughed merrily. 

“You’re correct,” he agreed, undaunted by her 
humor. “Like most women, you are a bundle of 
charming mystery; but in your case there is added the 
grace of wit.” 

“Tut, tut,—you are growing poetical, I’m afraid.” 
Betty tried to withdraw her hand. 

“Can’t see it that way, Betty,” and he kissed the 
hand respectfully, continuing to hold it firmly. 

“Please let me free,” she half whispered coaxingly. 

“Just let me hold this beautiful parcel of dimples for 
five minutes. Think of it, Betty, if this appendicitis 
had not afflicted me suddenly, the privilege might 
never have been mine. May I ask if you will write 
to me once in awhile.” 

Betty smiled at his persistent methods, and wondered 


158 


GLAD RAY 


whether he could read in her eyes the joy his request 
had given her. 

“Will you tell me all about the ranch, your paintings, 
and how you spend your time?” 

“Anything you wish. I’d tell you a whole lot right 
now only you would think me rude or insincere on so 
short an acquaintance.” 

The sweet face dimpled as she raised her soft brown 
eyes to meet his. 

“Your advice, and our little talks, have meant too 
much for me to believe you insincere, but I don’t want 
you to—to—” 

“To tell you that I love you until I am more posi¬ 
tive. Is that it?” 

“Possibly,” and the dark silken lashes lowered 
modestly. 

“I won’t say I love you, dear. Neither of us wishes 
to mistake our inclinations for our convictions. I 
want to know that it is the dimpled kiddy with the 
loving soul of a woman for whom I have that supreme 
feeling,—and not the charming nurse and her uniform.” 

“Yes?” she murmured sweetly, being too timid to 
venture a more worldly woman’s method of leading 
him on, but praying he would continue. 

“Yes, dear, I am thrilled by some subtle force. It 
is my sincere desire to be convinced,—thoroughly con¬ 
vinced—that the divine love my big heart craves, is 
not a pity you might feel for a sick patient, that you 
could possibly mistake for the supreme emotion.” 
Ronning took both of Betty’s hands and folded them 
against his breast with a gentle firmness the nurse 



GLAD RAY 


159 


did not resist. ‘‘Do you remember the very first long 
talk we had? I warned you against permitting any 
man to touch those beautiful lips of yours unless you 
knew him well enought to love him, and loved him 
well enough to marry him? Do you remember?” 

“I do.” Betty tried to move away as she thought 
possibly Carston Ronning might be testing her firm¬ 
ness and she dare not fail. 

“Look at me, Betty. You need not fear. You may 
even think me a fool, feeling my heart throb as you 
can, that I do not forcibly steal the delicious kisses we 
both know it possible to take by brute strength if I 
desired.” 

“No, you are not a fool, but thank God you possess 
the superb strength and self-control of a real man.” 

“Thank you, sweetheart.” He touched his lips to 
her forehead as he continued. “You have the faith of 
a trusting child,—a risky attribute to rest in the 
vicious hands of most men. For that reason I desire 
to warn you, not bind you.” 

“Warn me of what?” This in unaffected surprise. 

“Against ever going out again with Doctor Ray¬ 
mond Hallaway.” His voice was low and serious. 

“Raymond Hallaway! How do you know I ever 
went out with Raymond Hallaway?” Betty’s eyes 
were filled with wonder. 

“It is impossible to tell without betraying a sacred 
trust. This much I can say,—he has a wife in the— 
Insane Asylum. 

“A while ago that might have stunned me, but not 
now. Two weeks ago I received a letter from Doc- 


160 


GLAD RAY 


tor Hallaway, mentioning this early marriage. As 
difficult as it was, the Doctor thought it due me to 
write the entire truth. He spoke of his wife’s unsel¬ 
fishness, of her teaching, and of his indifferent habits, 
and about her being insane. He also wrote of a Miss 
Longworth, a young lady he expected to marry if she 
would only wait for him until he was free.” 

“Do you think this was right—to ask any woman to 
be his promised wife, let alone going about with you, 
an unsuspecting victim?" 

“Truly, Carston—” 

“That’s right. Call me that.” 

“Doctor Hallaway always has treated me with con¬ 
sideration. It was no effort for him to be a gentle¬ 
man with any gentlewoman. More than that, there 
isn’t a man living in his dilemma who would not have 
asked the woman he worshipped to wait for him. He 
should have had that first marriage annulled after he 
once came to his senses. Had he not had so much 
respect for his wife’s unselfishness, and gratitude for 
her broad views of his errors, he would have investi¬ 
gated the methods used to railroad him into mar¬ 
riage. As for Miss Longworth, he might have waited 
to ask her hand, but the Doctor is a combination of 
quick temper, quicker action, strong and steady likes, 
and equally strong and steady dislikes.” 

“He never tried to caress you, Betty?” 

“Not once has he tried to hiss me. He has kissed 
my hand, but never my lips.” 

“You respect him?” pressed Ronning. 

“I certainly do; he is a coming man.” 


GLAD RAY 


161 


“You don’t love him, dear?” 

“My admiration is for his professional work. There 
never has been the slightest love in my heart toward 
him.” 

“Yet, you have much to learn about men in general.” 

“No doubt that is true. You wouldn’t expect me 
to know much about men when I never have taken a 
walk with but two in my life,—they were my father 
and Doctor Hallaway.” 

“Thank God for that. All the more reason for me 
to know I am holding the sweetest and purest of girl¬ 
hood before me now.” 

“You will think me silly if I stand here longer,” she 
blushed with the thought. 

“Not silly, but most trusting, most beautiful, and 
truly the most wonderful woman in the world.” 
Again he kissed the dimpled hands. 

“Please let me go. Some one might come and find 
us like this, and things could be made most unpleasant 
for me.” 

“Is Hallaway an interne here?” asked Ronning, 
ignoring her plea. 

“He was until this month, but even now, since he 
has completed his course, he is sufficiently well known 
around the Hospital to hunt me most any time. He 
has always preferred me to assist him since he has been 
doing clinical work.” 

“Are you anxious to graduate, Betty?” 

“It is my desire to keep busy. My father is a min- 


162 


GLAD RAY 


ister. With a view to binding pleasure with my work, 
yet trying to bestow cheer and practical assistance on 
the poor of his church, I have kept up my studies. 
There are but two months more before my course is 
completed.” 

“You are a splendid nurse and thoughtful little 
girl. It would be great to be ill all over again in order 
to have ‘Nurse Betty’ attend my case.” 

“Don’t you think we had better go?” Betty en¬ 
treated again. 

“Let me take one memento with me, dear, and then 
we shall go. Will you let me, you wonder girl?” 

“You said you wouldn’t kiss me, and truly I don’t 
wish you to,—at least not—not yet.” 

“I am going to keep my promise, sweetheart. Don’t 
ever test another man’s self-control or he may fail your 
trust. Men are only big impulsive boys grown tall. 
Sweet, lovable women can make fools of the most 
sedate men. Foolish women can make beasts and 
selfish cads of otherwise self-respecting men.” 

“What memento is it you wish? I don’t quite un¬ 
derstand.” Betty was plainly confused. 

“Do you think I could have learned to love you in 
this short while?” Carston Ronning pressed her 
hands closer against his breast. 

“That is for you to know. Seems to me if I felt 
the real emotion, I would recognize it.” Betty’s dim¬ 
ples were playing tag with her blushing cheeks. 

“Would you, you little temptress? Well, I wish to 
act with fairness to you, and your parents. After a 
few weeks’ separation, and I feel as now, it will be 


GLAD RAY 


163 


my privilege to come and tell you the dear old story. 
Is there just one little feeling of love for me in your 
trusting heart, Betty?” 

“I’ll—I’ll—tell you when you come to relate the 
‘dear old story/ ” she answered roguishly. 

“You are the sweetest girl I ever knew ; and I wish 
you to remember this hour with the same sacred 
significance that I shall. Will you, sweetheart?” 

Betty nodded. 

Carston Ronning slipped his arms about the beau¬ 
tiful nurse before him, and rested her brown curly 
head on his breast, with her cheek against her folded 
hands. 

“This shall be the memento, dear. A dream won¬ 
derful—one that I shall carry away with me. What 
a privilege to hold in my arms so pure and wonderful 
a woman. Lift your beautiful face, Betty, that we may 
feast far into the depths of each other’s eyes.” 

“I’d rather not,—not now,—I'm—I’m almost afraid 
to trust myself.” Betty clung closer to hide her rad¬ 
iant expression. Her honest confession impressed him 
deeply. 

“Trust me, darling. Please, please trust me,” he 
pleaded. “Other women might believe me a fool; but: 
you, with your pure soul, will surely understand I 
could not betray your confidence.” 

“Carston, I—” 

“Look, Betty. Raise your eyes to mine. Darling, 
you have my promise,—my word of honor.” 

Very slowly Betty lifted her sweet face to his. All 



164 


GLAD RAY 


the while her dimples were playing havoc with Ron- 
ning’s resolutions. 

“Betty! Betty! I love you!” declared the imp- 
petuous artist, drawing her to him in passionate em¬ 
brace. “Darling, as tempting as this is, I have kept my 
faith. Will you,—will you try to love me in return?” 

He lowered his face close to hers; his lips came 
dangerously near as he breathed against her hair. It 
was useless to struggle. Betty really did not wish to 
move. Now was the greatest moment,—the dream of 
her womanhood. 

“Answer me, Betty.” Every fibre in Ronning’s 
massive body throbbed with the intensity of emotion. 
“Will you try to love me, sweetheart?” 

“Come back, Carston, for your answer in two 
months. Being in your big strong arms and you keep¬ 
ing your word not to kiss my lips, and every syllable 
you have uttered is—joy to me.” Again Betty lowered 
her smiling face for fear of being too easily won. 
She yearned to offer her lips, as Carston’s passionate 
love was fully reciprocated. Slowly she withdrew 
from his caress, and standing before him in her fas¬ 
cinating beauty, she concluded: “I shall count the 
days, dear, until the two months are over. It will 
seem like—like a year—until we meet again.” 

“Thank you, sweetheart. In two months,—sav two 
months from today, I will return to you at your 
father’s home. I’ll not count the davs, but the 
minutes.” 

Ronning tenderly kissed both shapely hands, and 
with a word or two of warning from the nurse in 


GLAD RAY 


165 


regard to following Doctor Crown’s prescribed diet 
for awhile, he reached for his suitcase and was gone. 
After purchasing a ticket West, Carston Ronning took 
time to drop this short letter to Gladys in care of 
Judge Breckenridge as she had directed:— 

My dear Gladys:—Before going back West it is due you 
to state that 1 have carefully warned Miss Betty Walker, 
though from other sources she had already been informed 
of all that was necessary. From Hospital accounts, Doc¬ 
tor Hallaway is a coming man, surgically. It is pathetic 
that you and he cannot adjust your differences for the 
sake of the little one. 

Miss Betty is an exceptionally fine girl with refined in¬ 
stincts, and from a cultured family. Thank you for in¬ 
troducing me to the young lady, and for you both I took 
pleasure in fulfilling your wishes. 

I am far from a tame lover, Gladys, but since it has 
been your sincere wish that the mention of marriage be¬ 
tween you and me shall be a dead issue, the subject will 
forever be dismissed. 

Miss Betty has given me her promise to cheer my ranch 
life with some of her merry disposition on paper. It 
surely is kind of her to waste ink on so humble a fellow! 

Now, little pupil,—of memories secret and sacred—I bid 
you goodbye. May you and your beautiful baby have all 
the happiness so conscientious a mother deserves. Should 
you ever need assistance, w r ill you kindly do me the honor 
of calling for the same from your sincere friend, 

Carston Ronning. 

For a few moments Carston held the sealed missive 
as he meditated on the changeableness of human na¬ 
ture. However, he was born an optimist and intended 
to live life as unselfishly and joyfully as possible. He 
was a firm believer in the wholesome law of Com¬ 
pensation. 

After the letter was mailed Ronning entered the 
waiting sleeper with a carefree spirit and dreamed of 
the hours and minutes before he would once more be¬ 
hold fascinating Betty. 


CHAPTER XI 


J UST as Mrs. Allen feared, Doctor Hallaway had 
been irritated. The humiliation of being rejected 
by the mother of his child was enough, but this was 
nothing compared to the sickening despair as he con¬ 
sidered the years of separation from the woman he 
loved most in life and the torturing probability of some 
day hearing of her marriage to another. That man 
would have the legal right to caress Gladys and the 
baby. He reasoned she had seen only the evil side 
and judged him accordingly. Having but limited ex¬ 
perience with vicissitudes of life, Gladys had been 
neither tactful nor broad minded, yet Doctor Hallaway 
believed association, travel and maturity would de¬ 
velop the glorious characteristics he had discovered in 
her. She was his ideal of womanhood. He adored 
her virtues, and endured her weaknesses. He had 
fought fiercely and manfully to overcome his own sins 
and this made him kinder in measuring the tottering 
steps of others. Their child had been the living bond 
which spurred him on. The Doctor realized, if Gladys 
married another, he would forever remain wretchedly 
lonely. 

After brooding over Gladys’ letter for two weeks, 
Raymond once more called on his former sweetheart. 
When he arrived at the rooming house the landlady, 

166 


GLAD RAY 


167 


Airs. Windle, told him Mrs. Hall had gone out of the 
city for an indefinite period, taking everything. 

“Did she take the baby with her?” he asked, squint¬ 
ing one eye at the frightened woman. 

“Well—er—no, but—” 

“ ‘But’ what?” he snapped. “Where is the baby?” 

“Mrs. Allen has her,” she replied, wondering if the 
truth would prove best for personal gain. 

“Where is Mrs. Allen?” he hissed. 

“Upstairs,” and glad to shift the Doctor’s company, 
Mrs. Windle escorted him to Mrs. Allen’s room. 

A firm rap with his umbrella handle, and the door 
opened. Hallaway deliberately stepped inside. 

“Mrs. Allen, I believe,” he began suavely. “Ahem, 
—do you remember me ?” 

“Indeed, I do,” came the unexpected answer as she 
watched the landlady creeping down the stairs. 

“Will you please close the door? I have some very 
important business to transact with you.” 

“No, I will not.” The resolute woman reached over 
to a tall chiffonier and with herculean strength banged 
it solidly against the open door. 

“There is no need of such precaution. I assure 
you.” 

“I don’t know whether there is or not; but I do 
know that one scream from me will bring ten men 
from all parts of this house, and I intend to take 
necessary precautions.” 

Hallaway noticed the baby playing with her toys in 
the bay window. The western sun shone on her 


168 


GLAD RAY 


beautiful curls and she talked with a birdlike voice to 
her doll family. 

“All I desire is to take my baby for a walk occas¬ 
ionally and to become better acquainted with her.” 

“You can't take that infant out of my sight,—if that 
is the one you claim as yours,” the excited woman re¬ 
plied as she pointed to “Glad Ray.” 

“Why certainly I call her mine. Isn’t she Mrs. 
Halhs baby?” 

“Yes, it’s Mrs. Hall’s baby; but you have no proof, 
have you, that she is yours ?” 

“I was not aware that written proof was necessary to 
claim my child,—not after you heard the quarrel be¬ 
tween Mrs. Hall and me, which should have convinced 
you of this child’s true parentage.” 

Mrs. Allen walked slowly over to the center table 
dividing the distance between “Glad Ray” and Doctor 
Hallaway. 

“Mrs. Hall entrusted the care of her little girl 
strictly to me for a few weeks, and I am going to per¬ 
form this duty without assistance from you.” 

“Do you know, madam, I can resort to law and have 
you declared unfit to have charge of this little one? 
If you wish the publicity, just force me to act.” 

“I wish you would.” Mrs. Allen smiled knowingly. 

“Possibly you would not enjoy the show,” he re¬ 
plied giving a jealous glance in the direction of the 
innocent cause of discussion. 

“I’d enjoy watching the other actor in the show, at 
least,” Mrs. Allen replied, as she commenced rum- 


GLAD RAY 


169 


maging for something in a drawer under the table- 
leaf. 

“Whom do you mean?” 

“Why you, of course,” responded the woman with 
set lips and a toss of her head. 

“How is that ?” Hallaway was trying to conceal 
his anger. 

“It so happens,” drawled Mrs. Allen exasperatingly, 
“I know YOU are unfit to assume charge of this baby. 
I can bring proof of your duplicity in black and white, 
in photographic form, and in life.” She gathered up 
a few samples of her proof from among the loose 
papers in the drawer. 

“What are you driving at?” Hallaway fired back. 

“Oh,—just a mere trifle,” rejoined the other airily. 
“A picture taken on the day you married my niece, 
Stella Allen; the marriage certificate which was placed 
in my charge by her father the day I started to trace 
your whereabouts; and a few other bits of choice 
evidence.” 

“Are you—” 

“I am Stella Allen,” interrupted Mrs. Allen, sister 
of your wife’s father, Frank Allen. Your wife was 
named after me. The ‘Mrs.’ has been added to pre¬ 
vent personal questions frequently advanced to old 
maids for their preference to spinsterhood. I guess 
you don’t recall me at the wedding.” 

At this moment the landlady revealed her presence 
by the squeaking of a loose board in the floor at the 
rear of the upper hall. She had gone down the front 
stairs, after leaving Hallaway with Mrs. Allen, and 


170 


GLAD RAY 


deliberately returned to the second floor by way of the 
kitchen stairway. The Doctor bounded ’round the 
corner of the open doorway and caught the crouching 
listner by the arm, pulling her resisting form before 
the astonished caretaker of “Glad Ray.” 

“Tell Mrs. Allen what she just said,” thundered 
Hallaway. 

“Please, I can’t,”, pleaded the trembling Judas. 

“You lie, you feline; repeat what Mrs. Allen said.” 

“She said—you could not—recall her—at the wed¬ 
ding.” 

“That is true,” Mrs. Allen insisted, not thinking she 
was giving evidence against her own relatives. “You 
were so beastly drunk you didn’t know that you were 
married until some of the guests informed you.” 

“Do you hear that, Mrs. Windle?” The Doctor 
addressed the landlady by her proper name, thinking 
he might need the sneaking female for a star witness. 

“I do, sir; but please don’t get me mixed in your 
troubles. My roomers would all leave me if— 

“You should have considered that side of the affair 
before you crept up the back stairs in order to satisfy 
your sordid appetite on this feast of scandal.” 

Hallaway pointed to the black iron trunk, which he 
failed to recognize, and ordered Mrs. Windle to sit on 
the closed top. Only too glad for an opportunity to 
rest her shaking limbs, she obeyed. 

“Please don’t call me into court.” She twisted her 
clawlike fingers about one another in nervous suspense. 
“Please don’t.” 

“That will depend on the desire for publicity that 


GLAD RAY 


171 


Mrs. Allen craves.” It was now Doctor Hallaway’s 
turn to feel he had a trifle the better of the argument. 

“I have no intention of arguing concerning your 
physical condition, in court.” Mrs. Allen tried to 
cover the remarks she had unintentionally let slip. 

“Your actions and insinuations in the future will 
settle that once and for all. I do not intend to enter 
the practice of medicine and surgery with a besmirched 
name of your kindly donation. By now, Mrs. Allen, 
you have discovered how unwittingly you revealed the 
truth about my being railroaded into a marriage with 
your niece. The words have been spoken, and be¬ 
fore this witness, for which I thank you vastly more 
than I can ever express. Could Mrs. Hall have been 
a listener, my future would look brighter.” 

“Your wedding day proved the beginning of tragedy 
for Stella and all her loved ones.” Once more Mrs. 
Allen endeavored to soften the blistering effect of her 
former declaration, 

“For me, also,—if you will take my word for it, 
madam.” 

“Men can live down such affairs,” she insinuated. 

“Like thousands of others of your sex—incapable 
judges because of environment and ignorance—you 
are pathetically one-sided and henningly set-jawed.” 

“Well,” she exclaimed with renewed emphasis, “you 
KNOW men live down misfortune like this more 
quickly than women.” 

“Not, my wise friend, when women of your type 
peddle their gossipy wares over the earth, relating the 
follies of a man’s youth. I am in much the same 


172 


GLAD RAY 


position as the paroled convict, ever ready to receive 
and ever expecting a downward kick. It burns into 
my soul with an increasing loathing that one of my 
sainted mother’s sex—you, a self-styled female de¬ 
tective—shouid derive vicious joy from following me 
about to riddle into atoms my every decent effort by 
your sugar-tipped serpent’s tongue; ready to publish 
before others of your kind the story of my youthful 
impulses and tragic failures; but not woman enough to 
mention the low, cowardly infamy played on my al¬ 
cohol-steeped senses by your, own unscrupulous 
brother.” 

“I was unaware of any tricks being played on you.” 

“Well, there was; and if you spread this bitter 
memory any further, I will carry it to the highest 
courts in the land to prove the rottenness of your 
brother’s methods, and to vindicate myself before the 
only woman I ever truly desired for my life’s mate. 

“It will go no further, unless Mrs. Windle repeats 
it,” replied the protector of “Glad Ray,” with a look 
of contempt at the landlady. 

“Leave this nervous wreck to me. I don’t see any 
reason why this subject should be brought up again. 
Your niece died recently, which frees me from any 
obligations to or connection with your family.” 

“She wasn’t dead when you became the father of 
this baby. She wasn’t dead when you lied to Gladys 
Longworth about an immediate marriage. She wasn’t 
dead when you went courting Betty Walker. She 
wasn’t dead when you registered as 'single’ on enter¬ 
ing the College, and as an interne. She wasn’t dead 


GLAD RAY 


173 


when you played fast and loose with a dozen other 
women since your promised marriage to Miss Long- 
worth.” 

“If I cared enough about the last of your insult, I’d 
march you about with me just to prove how expensive 
your detective work really was. It is sad, indeed, to 
pay your brother’s hard earned saloon-blood-money 
for idle gossip and lies.” 

“That is what was told to me. I accepted it in good 
faith.” 

“Much you have related is based on fact, but exag¬ 
gerated to suit the liars’ whims and your financial 
offer.” 

“Perhaps,” she torturingly insinuated. 

“Positively. Does Miss Longworth know who you 
are?” The Doctor drew up a high backed chair and 
rested his forearms on the top edge of the chair-back, 
with his hands clasped together. 

“No, I never considered it necessary to tell her. She 
appears quite capable of avoiding a future mixup with 
any one.” 

“Thanks for small favors, at least. Are you being 
paid for your present services as nurse girl?” 

“Twice the amount I should receive. Miss Long- 
worth—or as she is known, ‘Mrs. Hall’—is exceedingly 
generous and kind." 

“Then you would not consider receiving a small 
settlement from me that I might take an occasional 
walk with my own child?” 

“Not one cent,” she responded indignantly. 

“Not if I doubled her offer to you?” 



174 


GLAD RAY 


“Not if you gave me five times the amount she is 
paying. Now we both know where we stand. I feel 
you care for this child, but my promises were made 
first to the mother. I am not certain you are the 
true father, only there are few men who would wish 
to assume your position unless it were really so. Pos¬ 
sibly it would be better for you to leave; it is almost 
time for the baby to take her nap." 

“Madam, it appears to be your prerogative to order 
me out of vour room, but it will be mine to rent the 
one which was previously Mrs. Hall’s. How about it, 
Mrs. Windle?” He faced the whining hypocrite with 
a dominating mien. 

Grateful for the chance to get into the good graces 
of the Doctor, as well as to rent the room, Mrs. Windle 
readily gave her consent. Victory shone in every 
feature as Doctor Hallaway handed her one week’s 
rent in advance. She did realize the Doctor’s object 
but was appeased with a dollar more than she received 
from Mrs. Hall. Mrs. Allen was a woman of rather 
keen perception, and understood Doctor Hallaway’s 
satisfaction in depriving his former sweetheart of her 
mother-privileges as long as he could,—particularly 
after Gladys refused his belated offer of marriage. 
Consternation and fear spread over the heavily lined 
face of Mrs. Allen, as she fathomed the Doctor’s in¬ 
trigue. With him so near, she was at a loss to know 
just what step would be best to take. 


CHAPTER XII 


i ST T 7UXTRA. WUXTRA!” 

VV “All about the St. Louis Tornado.” “Three 
Hundred People Killed.” 

“Wuxtra. Wuxtra!” 

Slumbering peacefully, dreaming mayhap of worlds 
and worlds of other babies just like her own sweet 
self, little Glad Ray knew nothing of this nation thrill¬ 
ing event destined to sadden the hearts of those so 
near and dear to her. 

“Wuxtra, Wuxtra,” came the strident call. Other¬ 
wise quiet thoroughfares of Louisville became storm 
centers of wildly excited multitudes seizing the latest 
editions of the newspapers as they came hot from the 
presses. Hysterical women fought with men for the 
precious parcels of newsprint. Causality lists were 
scanned eagerly by the half crazed mobs. Now and 
then a wild sob would pierce the heart of scores who 
knew another message of death had struck home. 
Many of this generation will recall the terrible holo- 
coust in northern Missouri when hundreds of lives 
were blotted out and more than a thousand men, 
women and children maimed in the historic tornado 
that swept the Mississippi valley. 

The day had been extremely hot. St. Louis had 
sweltered in the unusual heat of early summer. So op- 

175 


I 


176 


GLAD RAY 


pressive was the atmosphere, it seemed omnious. Just 
as the workers were beginning to pour out of the great 
buildings the sky darkened. A fitful breeze brought 
relief to joyous crowds. Then that gripping stillness! 
Pedestrians paused in alarm. In an instant day was 
turned into blackest night. Street lights glimmered. 
The crowds rushed on jostling,—almost fighting. 
Gusts of wind, knife like in sharpness, shrieked around 
corners. Here and there a signboard fell. Out of 
the nowhere came that threatening roar, increasing in 
intensity. The crowds fled to cover. Any shelter 
sufficed. The storm broke, smashing, crashing fear¬ 
less in it’s grandeur. Surface cars stopped, crews and 
passengers scurrying before the gale. Down came 
telephone poles with their tangled wires. Flying dust 
and debris added to the murky darkness. Now a 
crash of broken glass as a show window smashed, 
then a shrill scream as the Wild Wind, club in hand, 
beat down struggling humanity. The suddeness and 
intensity of the storm paralized the great city and left 
the down town section a mass of wreckage. 

It will be recalled that the tornado had but caressed 
St. Louis in passing, doing its greatest damage on 
Jefferson, Lafayette, Chateua and Mississippi ave¬ 
nues. Houses were lifted off their foundations, 
appartment buildings unroofed, trees uprooted and the 
streets filled with a mass of ruins that broke into 
flames. Firemen were blocked and rescuers fought 
their way through the flying debris in response to the 
cries of the injured. The flames spread. All hope 
seemed to have been abandoned. For fully fifteen- 


GLAD RAY 


177 


minutes the Wind King held sway ruling with a cruel 
hand. Evidently satisfied with the havoc wrought, 
Angry Nature opened the flood gates. Sheets of water 
deluged the streets, poured into cellars and rushed 
madly on to the river. For hours the down pour con¬ 
tinued while police, firemen and volunteers worked in 
the blinding rain to save life and bring first aid to the 
maimed. The hospitals were filled to overflowing. 
Mansions were turned into missions of mercy. 

Stunned, but conscious of immediate need, St. Louis 
was awakening. The work was organized. Leaders 
were appointed and the great volunteer army began to 
function. Like a beaten batallion rallying at the very 
moment of defeat, St. Louis sprung to it’s feet and 
faced the greatest battle of it’s history. Before the 
wires were flooded with news of the disaster and other 
cities had specials on the way the citizen army of 
relief restored order. It is a way St. Louis has. Just 
as victory seemed complete, stories of death and de¬ 
struction came from down the valley. The rushing 
waters had swept bridges away, overturned trains, 
washed out fertile fields and carried hundreds down 
the river on the tops of their wooden shacks. All 
kinds of water craft put out on the Father of Waters 
to survey the scene and plan a new campaign of relief. 
Accurate death lists could not be prepared, and for 
days the city and adjoining towns were held in sus¬ 
pense. So the news reports ran in Louisville papers. 

“Wuxtra. Wuxtra!” 

Again and again came that stirring cry. All 


178 


GLAD RAY 


Louisville was in turmoil. Mrs. Allen, Glad’s 
guardian, had been scanning edition after edi¬ 
tion of the extras for news of Gladys. She knew 
she was in the storm bound area, and frantic with fear 
tried valiently to get a message of inquiry over the 
wires. It was hopeless. Believing that Gladys had 
been killed she began to fear for her precious charge. 
What if the Doctor should know of the fatality and 
try to seize Glad Ray? Panic stricken by this new fear 
the poor woman considered and dismissed a score of 
plans for flight. 

Gladys had written Mrs. Allen twice a week and 
the last letter the older woman received was about the 
time Judge and Mrs. Breckenridge were to visit the 
Fritz Huberts, and dated two days before the tornado. 
The happy bride mentioned extending her visit for 
another month. She stated she was to spend a few 
days with old friends of her family living out on Laf¬ 
ayette Avenue, but gave neither their name nor a def¬ 
inite address. 

Since Gladys had failed to menion under what name 
she was traveling, or where she could be located in 
case of emergency, or even to disclose the object of 
her trip, Mrs. Allen was frantic. Glad Ray contracted 
whooping-cough and had two convulsions. Her 
troubles reached a climax when Doctor Hallaway 
moved into the room adjoining. As a physician, Ray¬ 
mond forced his services on Mrs. Allen one evening 
when Glad Ray became critically ill. He had heard 
the excited woman calling for a doctor. In her de¬ 
sire to give the child immediate relief, Mrs. Allen per- 


GLAD RAY 


179 


mitted him to prescribe. The treatment was success¬ 
ful. After the Doctor had made several visits to his 
baby’s bedside she began, with loving trust and in¬ 
nocence, to hold out her arms to be taken. He taught 
her to call him “Papa,” much against the wishes of her 
caretaker. Each day Mrs. Allen could see the love 
developing into a devotion which filled her heart with 
apprehension. In the course of time the landlady, 
Mrs. Windle, added to Mrs. Allen’s suspicions by be¬ 
coming friendly with the physician. She was afraid 
to leave her room without taking the baby with her. 
Fear, lest the Doctor steal the child as the latter slept 
or played in the bay window, kept the caretaker’s 
nerves at high tension. Every creepy sound during 
the night, or effort on Mrs. Windle’s part to become 
solicitious as to Glad Ray’s care increased Mrs. Allen’s 
anxiety. 

But Gladys Longworth Breckenridge was sublimely 
oblivious of Doctor Hallaway’s change of address, or 
that her baby was ill. So long as she wrote regularly 
and kept Mrs. Allen plentifully supplied with money, 
Gladys felt further detailed correspondence on her 
wedding journey was unnecessary. Judge Brecken¬ 
ridge shared the views of his wife and thought keep¬ 
ing too closely in touch with Louisville was almost 
desecration. 

“Mrs. Allen, where is this child’s mother?” inquired 
the Doctor during one of his morning visits to “Glad 
Ray.” 

“I did not ask Mrs. Hall where she was going or 
why. 


180 


GLAD RAY 


“Have you no idea?” 

“If I had, no one would find it out.” 

“It might be to your future advantage if you treated 
me with a little more respect.” 

“I have little for you. Your sarcasm, when you 
spoke to Mrs. Hall, has about killed what I might 
have had.” 

“Don’t you believe it possible to be so unstrung from 
too much study and responsibility, that I could forget 
myself and say many things I would regret?” 

“That is possible.” 

“If you were a broader minded woman, it would be 
easy for you to assist this little one’s mother to see 
things from a different view-point. Gladys is a won¬ 
derful woman,—beautiful and sensitive,—but she is 
easily discouraged and as easily influenced. Do you 
think her finances are going to hold out very much 
longer?” hie spoke with calculating slowness. 

“Her money may not last, but her friendship will, 
and I guess I can attend to the financial end of it if 
she suffers from lack of funds,” and Mrs. Allen’s grey 
eyes snapped. “If there is one thing more than another 
in which I feel a pride, it is in keeping my word, 
especially during a crisis when many women might 
weaken.” 

“You are very loyal to Gladys, and I would like to 
have you realize that I am her friend,—her very best 
and nearest friend. It would give me joy to substitute 
another term for ‘friend.’ ” 

Mrs. Allen smiled at the thought of Gladys being 
sufficiently courageous to dismiss the Doctor. 


GLAD RAY 


181 


“By the way,” the Doctor continued, “I forgot to 
tell you my location is picked out right here in Louis¬ 
ville. Father is ready and anxious to back me, owing 
to my post-graduate standings and Hospital record. 
The new home I have rented is not a mansion, but 1 
hope to satisfy Gladys that it will be a haven for us 
three.” The Doctor touched his lips reverently to his 
little daughter’s forehead as he day-dreamed for a 
moment. 

“I am sure I couldn’t tell you whether Gladys will 
jump at the opportunity or not.” 

“She may refuse, but the baby won’t.” 

“Don’t try to take the baby from me, or some one 
or more of us may not live to tell the tale. I gave 
my word to Mrs. Hall to protect her little one from 
just such a misfortune.” 

“Calm yourself. There will be no shooting. If 
Gladys refuses to share my home, when she returns 
from her mysterious trip, then there will be time 
enough to talk about revolvers. I love the mother of 
my child, probably more than you do. It is my wish 
to make Gladys my legal wife. She has refused to 
marry me. It is Hell to think of another man pos¬ 
sessing her or fathering my little girl.” He kissed the 
blonde curls so like his former sweetheart’s. 

“Won’t you give me your word not to take the 
baby from me by stealth, Doctor Hallaway?” begged 
Mrs. Allen with tears in her eyes. 

“If I could, I would; Gladys may reconsider her last 
letter to me. I will wait until the end of this week 
before seeking legal light on this question. Rest as- 


182 


GLAD RAY 


sured, I will not harm a hair of my little daughter’s 
head.’’ 

“That does not lessen my obligation to Mrs. Hall.” 
Mrs. Allen’s face was haggard. 

“Very true; neither does it lessen my obligation to 
my own flesh and blood. This is my baby. She be¬ 
longs to both Gladys and me, and her mother should 
be willing to play fair. Otherwise—” He drew up 
his massive shoulders and lowered them again in a 
maner which warned Mrs. Allen of the impending 
danger. 

“It is quite possible to have this little one taken 
from me, as I am only the hired nurse, but I will not 
give her up voluntarily. The mother has my promise 
and I mean to keep faith. My duty is plain. I will 
guard this baby while there is breath left in my old 
body.” Tears rolled down the careworn cheeks. 

“Don’t worry for the present. We will wait until 
Mrs. Hall writes you or me again,” the Doctor assured 
her. 

This was little comfort to Mrs. Allen. There was 
a look in Doctor Hallaway’s eyes she mistrusted. She 
did not doubt his intention of possessing “Glad Ray” 
at any cost. Since she felt instinctively that Gladys 
was already married, she saw only trouble ahead if 
the child remained longer within its father’s reach. 
The young mother had pinned her trust to the older 
woman’s word of honor, and though the responsibility 
was appalling, Mrs. Allen did not propose to be found 
wanting. 

“I must leave now,” the Doctor concluded, “and 


GLAD RAY 


183 


supervise some alterations on the new home. Before 
going, let us shake hands and consent to share this 
obligation with a common purpose, at least until we 
know better how matters truly stand.” 

Partly because she did not comprehend his real 
nature and more because she dreaded a scene, Mrs. 
Allen reluctantly laid her icy fingers for an instant 
in Doctor Hallaway’s warm, hearty grasp. 

“I trust everything turns out for the best,” she 
sighed. 

“I trust so too,” whimpered Mrs. Windle, who was 
afraid to have an opinion of her own, but who had 
surreptitiously joined the trio while pretending to 
polish the door knob. 

“All we can do is to hope, Mrs. Allen,” rejoined 
Hallaway, ignoring Mrs. Windle. “Thank you truly 
for giving the baby such loving care, especially your 
conscientious nursing all through her recent illness. 
This mark of your affection has not escaped me. For 
today, goodbye.” 

“Good morning, Doctor.” Varied emotions pre¬ 
vented her from saying more. However, she was 
grateful he had noticed her nursing. 

“Good morning, Doctor,” echoed the she-jaguar. 

After kissing “Glad Ray’s” velvety cheeks again and 
again, the Doctor painstakingly instructed her to re¬ 
main by the window to wave to “papa” after he reached 
the front gate,—an act of devotion she enjoyed as 
much as her father. 

Days passed and still no letter from Gladys. The 
papers published a list of the injured and dead, but 


184 


GLAD RAY 


there were no familiar names to Mrs. Allen. After 
many sleepless nights and days of deliberation the 
problem finally resolved itself into a choice between 
two solutions—leaving quietly with the child when 
Doctor Hallaway was not in his room, or remaining 
and running constant risk of having “Glad Ray" stolen 
or taken by force. The Doctor was absent almost 
every afternoon. This gave the baby’s guardian plenty 
of time to pack a trunk with articles necessary for a 
prolonged stay. She had decided on a vacation until 
the bride-mother returned. Even after the trunk was 
ready and all personal arrangements completed, Mrs. 
Allen waited three days longer for a word from Gladys. 
She was not alone in her fears, though the causes dif¬ 
fered. Doctor Hallaway was equally worried and 
particularly so over the future guardianship and train¬ 
ing of his beautiful little daughter. The greater the 
Doctor’s solicitation, the more positive Mrs. Allen be¬ 
came that it would be against all rules of father-love, 
for her to think she could retain the child unless she 
fled quickly. 

Mrs. Allen ultimately decided to leave for Pike Lake, 
Minnesota,—a mere spot on earth, but not on the map, 
having as its one possession, a Tavern run by a man 
named Sullivan, a cousin of Frank Allen’s wife. 

Pike Lake is about seven miles out of Duluth, amid 
wild, rugged hills and in the pine forests. There 
hunters, fishermen, artists and writers spend different 
seasons of the year. The baby’s caretaker waited until 
a certain afternoon when Doctor Hallaway had in¬ 
vited the landlady over to inspect the completed home. 


GLAD RAY 


185 


He invited Mrs. Allen but she tactfully refused. Im¬ 
mediately after the two had strolled from view, Mrs. 
Allen called an expressman and had her trunk—as 
well as the black iron one belonging to “GladyRay”— 
delivered purposely to the wrong depot. Later, the 
same evening, the Doctor came in to bid his little 
daughter goodnight, and give her a few bright pen¬ 
nies for her bank. First, he played “beanbag” with 
her until the tiny legs could no longer run and the 
eyes were too weary to hunt. The Doctor listened in 
reverent silence to “Now I lay me down to sleep.” 
He kissed the sleepy eyes and baby lips, never dream¬ 
ing of the years before that privilege once more would 
be his. 

There was a guilty feeling in Mrs. Allen's heart. 
But she could not protect the little one to the satis¬ 
faction of the mother, and have it in constant touch 
with the father. At ten o’clock the boarding-house 
was comparatively quiet. The Doctor was sleeping. 
At ten-fifteen Mrs. Allen pinned a note and the two 
dollars room rent for the remainder of the week on 
her dresser cover, she took the precaution to have the 
money in the form of an express order that she might 
have a receipt before leaving Louisville. At ten-thirty 
Mrs. Allen hurriedly dressed the sleeping child and 
gathered up two handbags which she had earlier in the 
day slipped under the bed. Softly she crept down the 
front stairs and out into the night with “Glad Ray” in 
her arms. It was six blocks to the depot where the 
trunks had been delivered. After walking rapidly 
about two blocks a cab came sufficiently close for Mrs. 


186 


GLAD RAY 


Allen to signal. In half an hour the two trunks had 
been transferred and re-checked, Mrs. Allen’s ticket 
and lower berth purchased, and “Glad Ray” with her 
well-meaning protector were on their way to Pike 
Lake, a place Doctor Hallaway, Gladys or any-one 
concerned had never heard mentioned,—at least not by 
Mrs. Allen. 


CHAPTER XIII. 


A MONG the homes completely burned to the 
ground, during the tornado in St. Louis, was the 
Fritz Hubert mansion where Judge and Mrs. Breck- 
enridge were spending the last portion of their honey¬ 
moon. Mrs. Hubert and her oldest son were killed 
by bricks from a falling chimney. Judge Breckenridge 
was severely injured by a section of a burning wall 
which fell on him, following the explosion of a gas 
tank while he was endeavoring to extinguish a fire. 
He had carried his frightened bride out of the suffo¬ 
cating, blinding smoke, and immediately returned to 
aid a member of the Hubert family when the accident 
occurred. He was taken at once to the Mercy Hos¬ 
pital, where Gladys remained constantly in attendance. 
For three days the jurist’s wounds seemed on the 
mend but on the fourth, he developed a fever followed 
by pneumonia. At the end of the fifth day, Judge 
Thomas Breckenridge passed on, conscious to the last. 
The final words of the venerable jurist, though spoken 
with the greatest effort, were an added evidence of 
faithful devotion to his charming wife. 

‘‘Gladys, little wife, everything is left so you will 
be comfortable for the remainder of your life. It is 
hard to go; harder yet to—leave you. It must be 
God’s will. The—last six—weeks—have been heaven 
—to me.” 


187 


188 


GLAD RAY 


“Treu! My own Treu! Don’t speak that way; I 
can’t spare you.” Tears fell freely from the swollen 
eyes, so feverish and full of pain. 

“Gladys, you must—live—to care for the baby. Go 
directly—home to her. There are plenty of funds.— 
Old Dinah will stay—with you—for my sake. You’ll 
have Mrs. Allen, too. The combination to the vault 
is in my wallet here,—and money to live on until you 
receive—the residue. Oh, Gladys,—I love you.—I 
love you.—Thank God—you are—my wife.” 

Judge Breckenridge did not speak again, and made 
no visible struggle against death, which came gently 
while the young wife knelt beside him. The attend¬ 
ing physician and interne lifted the sobbing widow 
from the side of the unresponsive body and assisted 
her to another room across the hall. During the day of 
the fire, Gladys’ eyes suffered from the flames and 
smoke, but the doctors assured her there was greater 
need of immediate attention to her nerves and gen¬ 
eral health than to her sight. With smoked glasses 
and rest she would find the inflammation disappear¬ 
ing rapidly. For almost a week after her husband’s 
demise Gladys waited in the Hospital to gain strength 
for the return to Louisville. All train and ticket ar¬ 
rangements were made by Fritz Hubert, whose men¬ 
tal anguish was alleviated by lessening the trials of 
others. 

The astounding news of Judge Breckenridge’s death 
reached Louisville some hours before the remains ar¬ 
rived at the Union station. Several prominent men 
met the widow, offering their assistance. Judge Dib- 


GLAD RAY 


189 


bell was one of the first, and insisted on attending to 
all details and escorting Mrs. Breckenridge to her new 
home, which she had frequently seen and admired but 
never before entered. The arrangements for the bur¬ 
ial two days later were personally supervised by Judge 
Dibbell. Dinah promised to stay indefinitely with the 
new owner and mistress of the Breckenridge home. 

Gladys put aside all selfish desires, and did not send 
for Mrs. Allen and the baby until after the funeral, 
when the house would once more be in order, and her 
business affairs adjusted. From worry and tears her 
eyes became dimmer. A severe cold on her lungs 
added to her already miserable health. The several 
hundred people who came to pay their last respects to 
the late jurist, and those to whom Gladys wrote notes 
of thanks for their beautiful floral offerings, caused 
the heartbroken widow extreme mental and physical 
exhaustion. Gladys had the Judge interred to the left 
of Colonel Longworth in the Longworth family lot. 
There was room for five more graves, and in this man¬ 
ner her three dearest departed were together. She 
placed over her husband’s resting place the same type 
of headstone he had selected for her parents. 

For almost five weeks following the funeral, Gladys 
Longworth Breckenridge was under the care of a 
nerve specialist. During the early period of his treat¬ 
ment, the Doctor considered visitors at the Brecken¬ 
ridge home dangerous for the welfare of his patient. 
The days were as years to Gladys, and the loneliness 
and suspense almost unbearable. She continued to im¬ 
prove in every way except her sight which became 


190 


GLAD RAY 


gradually weaker. At last it was decided she might 
’phone for Mrs. Allen and “Glad Ray.” Little did her 
advisors dream of the shock in store for the widowed 
bride. 

The telephone operator gave the correct connection. 

“Hello?” Mrs. Breckenridge tremblingly called. 

“Hello,” snapped a feminine voice. 

“Is Mrs. Allen in her room, please?” 

“Mrs. Allen!” the other responded sharply. 

“Yes, Mrs. Allen,” answered Gladys in cultured, 
measured tones as she recognized Mrs. Windle’s rasp¬ 
ing voice. 

“No, Mrs. Allen left about six weeks ago.” 

“Left? Left for where,” cried the mother, now 
thoroughly alarmed. 

“Nobody knows, ma’m. Nobody can find out. Is 

“This is Mrs. Hall. Rather you once knew me as 
Mrs. Hall. Where is my baby?” There was a sob in 
her voice as she excitedly continued to question her 
former landlady. 

“Wish I could tell you. Mrs. Allen went away dur¬ 
ing the night, leaving only a short note; that’s all I 
know about either your baby or her.” 

“What did the note say? Please read it to me,” 
begged the lonely, weeping woman. 

“I saved it thinking possibly you might wish to 
know something concerning the whereabouts of your 
child, and the old hag you hired to protect your in¬ 
terests.” 

An attempt at irony from the lips of Mrs. Windle 


GLAD RAY 


191 


would pass over the head of almost anyone, so Gladys, 
ignored it. 

“Please find the note and read it to me/’ she 
pleaded. 

“Hold the line for a moment. I think it’s in my 
dresser.” 

That moment was like an hour to Gladys until Mrs. 
Windle again spoke over the wire. 

“Are you listening, Mrs. Hall?” came the exasper¬ 
ating query. 

“Yes, yes—please read,” urged Gladys. 

“Here it is then: 

‘Have left more than my room rent. I put it in the 
form of a money order so as to have receipt. Am afraid 
of Dr. Hallaway who threatens to steal the baby, so will 
remain away until I hear through detectives that Mrs. 
Hall has returned. Then I will restore the baby to it’s 
mother. If I never hear from Mrs. Hall, will keep the 
child and give her the most loving care. Am going so far 
away that no one will ever find me. Will not break 
faith with Mrs. Hall for any soul on earth. 

StellaAllen.’ 

“Will you give that letter to a messenger if I send 
for it immediately?” 

“Certainly, Mrs. Hall.” 

“Did Mrs. Allen take a black iron trunk?” 

“Yes, and she also took such effects as she desired 
to keep.” 

“Then I will send for the letter right away.” 

“Won’t you come out to see us, Mrs. Hall?” 

“Not for the present, but possibly later, thank you.” 
“Very well. By the way, did you know that Doctor 
Hallaway just moved from here, where he previously 


192 


GLAD RAY 


rented your former room? He went to live in his 
beautiful new home, which he remodeled for both resi¬ 
dence and office.” 

“No, I know nothing about Doctor Hallaway,” re¬ 
sponded Gladys with poorly affected indifference. 

“Shall I deliver any message to him? He runs over 
once or twice a week, hoping I have heard either from 
you or Mrs. Allen. He surely does love your baby, 
Mrs. Hall,” she added significantly. 

“Thank you, but any message I may have for the 
Doctor, will be delivered in person.” 

“Goodbye, then, Mrs.—what’s-your-name ?” Mrs. 
Windle inquired cunningly. 

“Good morning. The messenger will call for the 
note at once.” 

In less than two hours an A. D. T. boy handed 
Gladys Mrs. Allen’s letter in which she read the 
alarming truth, adding mystery and sorrow to her al¬ 
ready aching heart. She wondered whether or not 
Raymond knew more than she, concerning the where¬ 
abouts of the baby. She was in serious doubt whether 
detectives sent out by Mrs. Allen could locate a Mrs. 
Hall, when there was no such person in existence. 

That night Gladys hired two plain clothes men, one 
to shadow the doctor and the other to search for Mrs. 
Allen. There were thirty thousand dollars in bonds 
and insurance ready for the widow to cash at any mo¬ 
ment ; also five thousand in ready money securely 
locked in her late husband’s vault; several first mort¬ 
gages from which she could draw interest until the 
principal would be paid her; and the cottage where she 


GLAD RAY 


193 


now resided and called “home.” All this naturally 
caused Gladys to feel that she was financially in a po¬ 
sition to find and possess her baby girl. Judge Dib- 
bell directed her business affairs with caution, securing 
for the widow of his former friend good interest on 
shrewd investments. 

Her greatest alarm came from the positive failing of 
her sight. After several weeks a thin, pearly white 
film made its appearance on the surface of both eyes, 
and large objects seemed dim shadows. Adding to her 
woes, she was informed by an eye specialist, nothing 
could be done to relieve her approaching blindness. 
She was told she would be forced to submit to the 
progress of the disease until its maturity when only a 
delicate operation could restore the sight. It was but 
a vague HOPE of future vision held out to the dis¬ 
couraged patient. 

In total darkness, with only Dinah, Judge Dibbell 
(her counselor) and Miss Weeks—a capable girl the 
widow employed as escort and social secretary—the 
cross of Gladys Longworth Breckenridge became 
heavier and harder to bear. Outwardly she accepted 
her blindness with smiling serenity, accentuating her 
lovable disposition and frail beauty. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


*0 ETTY was the picture of anticipation and joy as 
-■-* she stood at the gate in her dainty lawn gown 
fastened at the throat with a fluffy lace jabot and 
pearl sunburst. She was watching and waiting for 
Carston Ronning. A telegram received earlier in the 
day stated he would arrive about sunset. It was two 
months almost to the hour since she last saw the artist. 

“Betty! My Betty!” Ronning eagerly clasped the 
dimpled hands extended toward him and covered them 
with kisses. “It is just eighty-six thousand four 
hundred minutes, Betty/’ and then he realized they 
were not alone. 

“You great, big boy! So you counted the minutes 
too, did you ?” Betty’s full, red lips trembled with 
emotion. 

“Are you glad to see me, dear ?” Ronning continued 
to gaze at the beautiful brunette before him with hon¬ 
est rapture and love written all over his manly face. 

“Of course, I am. Are you?” Betty blushed pret¬ 
tily. 

“Glad! Well, it’s the last time I will remain away 
two months, or even two days, I can asure you.” 

Reverend and Mrs. Walker came down the steps to 
greet their guest. As they joined the happy couple 
Betty introduced them to the artist she had nursed so 

194 


GLAD RAY 


195 


faithfully, and the man they knew she had learned to 
love. A most sincere welcome was extended. Even 
Betty’s dog, “Gyp,” pranced and barked his greeting, 
finally seating himself at the feet of his young mis¬ 
tress. After dinner, while Betty assisted her mother, 
and in the twilight Reverend Walker and Carston 
Ronning strolled about the rose garden, a portion of 
the well kept grounds around the church and par¬ 
sonage. 

“Our daughter has handed us most of your letters 
to read, my boy,—so the object of your visit is not un¬ 
known. The frank old man motioned to a rustic seat 
where they could talk. “Mrs. Walker and I feel as 
though we had been acquainted with you for some 
time.” 

“I am conscious of my absolute unworthiness in 
mentioning this subject, Rev. Walker, but since I have 
fallen so desperately in love with your daughter, I 
presume you are the one to hear my proposal and 
now is the time. 

“Yes,—that is right, the time has come. I have 
dreaded it for years,” he sighed. “How long have 
you known our Betty?” The minister shifted his 
position in order to meet the honest gaze of his future 
son-in-law. 

“A little more than three months,—but it seems 
years to me. There is neither act nor look about 
Betty that I do not love.” Ronning made his confes¬ 
sion more easily than he anticipated. 

“Have you sufficient income to maintain a home?” 


196 


GLAD RAY 


the father asked with the natural welfare of his daugh¬ 
ter at heart. 

“If she is willing to live a wholesome life, full of 
usefulness, love and kindness,—yes. I own a small 
ranch worth approximately $40,000. From my brush 
I average between $4,000 and $5,000 a year. This is 
not much, but Betty, mother and I can get along 
nicely and even save a little if she is so inclined.” 

The father made no comment but asked another 
question. 

“What are your habits, young man?” 

“I care nothing for liquor, or tobacco, but love 
travel, books, pets, hunting and fishing.” 

“Nothing very dangerous, I am sure.” 

“No,” Carston responded frankly, “but at that I am 
far from a saint.” 

“Most men are in the same boat, my son.” The 
white haired man smiled as he recalled his younger 
days when he had fought many a battle with the an¬ 
cient and rigid regulations as expounded by the pious 
members of his congregation. “One more important 
question: Is your health and that of your parents in 
a normal condition?” 

“My father was drowned while out sailing, but 
always enjoyed good health. His ancestors were of 
the old Viking stock, with robust bodies and compe¬ 
tent mentalities. My mother has been well until re¬ 
cently. After father’s accident, mother worried so 
much she lost strength, but I guess with tender care 
the dear old mater will stay with me for many years. 
If there is one thing more than another over which 


GLAD RAY 


197 


father and mother displayed unusual pride, it was the 
unblemished lives of their ancestors. I am just what 
I appear to be—a plain, big fellow, with clean blood in 
my veins, good lungs, and an over amount of ambition 
to possess Betty for my wife.” 

“As Betty’s father, you do not blame me for being 
exacting, do you ?” 

“Not at all, Mr. Walker. I wonder that you can 
feel any man on earth is good enough for so pure and 
beautful a girl.” 

“Well, it is hard,—but Betty is the one to decide, 
you know. She has already told me her wishes, and 
—” “Gyp” jumped up to be petted and the sentence 
was never finished. “It has grown quite dark. How¬ 
ever, the moon will soon appear from behind yonder 
clouds. I think it is time to put “Gyp” in the barn for 
the night and then call my daughter.” 

“May I see her alone for a few moments, if you 
please?” 

“Certainly. Been young myself not so very long 
ago. One relaxes from the daily grind when permit¬ 
ting fond fantasies of youth to linger occasionally. 
One feels years younger to dream again the sacred and 
refreshing days when life was free from care. Oh, 
well,” he soliloquized, “it is a worth-while meditation, 
when one has used his golden hours to good advantage. 
Try not to remain in the garden too long. The night 
air at this season is damp. Tomorow you will have 
another opportunity to chat with Betty. Begin now to 
take good care of my little girl, will you?” 


198 


GLAD RAY 


“As you wish, Mr. Walker, I’ll commence tonight 
to obey—” 

“Your new father, eh?” the older man interrupted. 

Both men laughed, one with a tinge of sadness that 
his only child had chosen another nest, and the other 
blithely because,—he was in love and could not help it. 

“As a final injunction, my son, give our daughter 
the same square deal you hope to receive. Nourish her 
tenderly, for she is sensitive, and by the grace of God 
may you be rewarded accordingly.” 

The old man turned without waiting for an answer 
and walked sadly toward the house. He had forgotten 
to put “Gyp” in the barn, and as though endowed with 
a sense of regret at the loss of his young mistress, the 
dog hung his head and walked, downcast, by the side 
of his master. Carston waited expectantly for several 
minutes before he heard the soft rustle of Betty’s 
gown. The first quarter of the southern moon was 
throwing her silver beams through the trellises and 
fragrant shrubbery. Carston arose from the rustic 
bench and met the white figure, leading her gently to 
the seat Reverend Walker had vacated. 

“Let me always assist you, dearest. My eyes are not 
only accustomed to these evening shadows, but many 
of the dark places and pitfalls of life. Do you under¬ 
stand me, Betty?” 

“I understand,” she almost whispered. 

“Betty, dearest! Is it true that we are alone just 
as we hoped to be, or is this a wonderful dream from 
which I shall awaken? Carston slipped his arm 
around her. 


GLAD RAY 


199 


“If it is a dream, then I am sharing your charming 
reverie.” 

Carston Ronning hesitated for only a moment. The 
question had been too constantly in his mind to wait 
longer for an answer. 

“Betty, your father seemingly does not object to me. 
He has left his answer to your personal choice. I love 
you more than any woman in the world. Will you— 
will you accept me for your life partner?” 

Betty was silent. The night, the moon, and the odor 
of roses caused her dream of dreams to become far 
too perfect and sublime for impulsive response. 

“Look at me, darling. Will you promise to be my 
own little wife, for ever and ever?” Carston held 
Betty slightly from him to compel her eyes to meet his 
in the soft glow of the moonlight. 

“You hardly need an answer, dear boy, for before 
God I have been yours since the hour I discovered 
what it was to love you. I promise to be your own, 
true wife now and for ever.” She looked straight into 
his eyes as she spoke, and her voice was sweet and 
alluring. 

“Mine? All mine?” 

“Yes, Carston, just yours.” 

“My darling! My own precious Betty!” 

Slowly, assuringly, tenderly he drew her dimpled 
face to his, and touched her responsive lips. 

“You dear, dear dream-boy!” whispered Betty. 

“My wonderful, mesmeric, baby girl!” and again 
Ronning feasted on the lusciousness of Betty’s full, red 


200 


GLAD RAY 


lips, sweeter by far than the nectar from the hearts of 
the roses about them. 

“Is this the way all men kiss their chosen love- 
mates?” she asked innocently, both surprised and joy¬ 
ous at the ecstasy of the superb emotion. 

“I have never seen any other man kiss his betrothed 
so I cannot tell you, my darling. Do you love these 
kisses of ours?” As he spoke, every syllable of his 
rich, manly voice vibrated with controlled passion. 

“They are sweetly mysterious, and fulfill the secret 
craving of my woman-soul.” 

Carston held Betty from him, then again drew her 
closer. 

“Such kisses, darling! Can you imagine anything 
nearer perfect? At last our lips have met and are to 
meet hundreds of times in exquisite union. You are 
the most beautiful woman in the world to me, Betty,— 
and the most fascinating.” 

“I wouldn’t seem so lovely, dear, were it not you 
who draw forth the response from the hidden depths 
of my soul.” 

“Yes, dearest, it takes one’s right mate; and surely 
we are properly mated. God bless you, darling, and 
keep us both true and happy forever.” 

“I suppose my dear father would say ‘Amen’ to that 
little prayer. Instead I am going to LIVE my 
‘amen.’ ” Betty snuggled closer. 

“You precious, bedimpled kiddy! What a heaven of 
happiness is this to know, though all other women 
prove failures, I have one little angel-hypnotist who, 
with her loving irresistibleness, will fascinate forever.” 


GLAD RAY 


201 


Ronning slipped a beautiful solitaire on Betty’s finger, 
saying as he did so: “Will you name the day, little 
sweetheart ?” 

“Don’t you think it is too early to set a day, dear?” 

“Not a bit of it,” he responded with an air of author¬ 
ity. “Just look at this,” and the artist took from his 
vest pocket his mother’s wedding ring. “This ring 
was used by my dear old dad. Now the mater thinks 
—and so do I—it would be fine to use it for my wed¬ 
ding.” They both laughed as he related the dream of 
his good old mother. 

“How lovely! And would I wear it until—until—” 

“Until our—our oldest child would marry. Do you 
understand, you wonderful Betty.” 

“How long is the longest, do you think, we should 
wait to be married?” she asked mischievously pursing 
her lips.. 

“Longest?” he exclaimed in dismay. “You mean 
how soon will be the soonest, don’t you?” They both 
smiled at the phraseology. 

“You surely don’t mean to—to be—” 

“I mean,” interupted the impetuous lover, “to have 
you name the day immediately, and take you West 
with me for a wedding trip. I am going a roundabout 
route to the mountains, and want my little wife by my 
side.” 

“Oh, Carston, I couldn’t think of leaving father and 
mother so soon,” but the dimples belied the regret in 
her eyes. 

“Come! Oh, Betty,—please promise you will go. I 
simply can’t return to the ranch without you this time.” 


202 


GLAD RAY 


Never since Betty had known him did Carston Ron- 
ning’s voice sound so persuasive. 

“How long do you intend to remain in Louisville, 
dear?” 

“Until Monday. Surely you can pack a suitcase in 
four days.” 

“Yes, but I haven’t the—proper clothes.” It was 
evident that Betty’s desire for a dainty trosseau caused 
her to hesitate. 

“Hang' the clothes! Oh, pardon me,” he mollified 
as he noticed the reproachful pout. “If you pucker 
your lips round and sweet like that again, I won’t be 
able to finish my remarks tonight.” 

“Isn’t my ring beautiful?” she asked appreciatively. 

“I hope so, darling; but as I was saying, you don’t 
need a lot of clothes. Just buy a traveling gown, and 
when we reach Chicago, you can buy out a store if you 
care to. Betty! Betty, darling! There’s no use de¬ 
bating the question. You just have to go home with 
me.” 

“Carston, I love you so!” 

“Prove it, sweetheart, by having the ceremony Sun¬ 
day. Will you?” 

“If father and mother consent, then I will.” 

“You are an angel, Betty. I’ll ask your parents at 
breakfast, so you won’t have to disturb their rest to¬ 
night. 

“But if they object,—I’ll have to wait, dear. They 
are so good to me. I couldn’t hurt their hearts.” 

“Don’t dash me with cold water. In some manner 
we should be able to influence them. Let me go to my 


GLAD RAY 


203 


room with the thought that the whole world will recog¬ 
nize you as my wife on Sunday just as you truly are 
my baby-wife tonight.” 

“Very well, dream-boy,—as you wish.” 

“Now Betty, I promised your father not to keep you 
too long in the night air. We must go in, and you to 
dreamland.” 

“Won’t you also dream, Carston?” 

“Haven’t been doing much else for the last two 
months. I’ll lull myself to sleep by the symphonic 
counting of the minutes until our wedding ceremony. 
I am strong on counting minutes, you know.” 

“Wasn’t it splendid that I was assigned by Doctor 
Crown to your particular case at the Hospital ?” 
beamed Betty. 

“It was God’s sublime way of adjusting circum¬ 
stances ; another evidence of compensation’s natural 
law.” 

“Carston, it is glorious that your professional call¬ 
ing has not sapped the optimism and spirit of youth 
from you. To me, you seem just what you are,—a 
talented, honest, big boy.” 

“That is one of the kindest compliments I ever re¬ 
ceived. Were I not a big boy, the greatest gift of the 
artist would be missing. He who has not the combina¬ 
tion of childhood and maturer years; who is devoid of 
sympathy and love for old and young; who has not 
experienced joys and sorrows; who has neglected to 
live in the sanctity of nature; who has stinted his life 
by refusing to see the brighter side, and weave dreams; 
who has not lived, worked, succeeded, failed and 


204 


GLAD RAY 


understood, makes a miserable excuse for the genuine 
artist. The individual minus these gifts cannot portray 
his subject without the flare of society, the hypocrisy 
of ‘tinkling cymbals,’ many explanations and conspicu¬ 
ous frames. The REAL artist pours out the bigness 
of his manhood on canvas, and without accompaniment 
of any kind, gives to those who view his efforts, an 
instructive share in the divine heritage of his soul.” 

“That analysis is sufficiently complete, and only 
goes to show why you are such a splendid lover. It is 
a heritage with you, indeed, to know exactly why, 
when and how.” 

“The dear old mater vows I will love a wife until 
she pleads for mercy. I can’t love you too much or too 
truly, can I Betty?” 

“No, Carston. All women live on love and I am no 
exception. They grow strong and endure any kind of 
trials with smiles and grace when they are fed on the 
glorious stimulent of tender demonstration. Rather 
than a banquet and a palace with the flimsy assurance 
some men feed their starved wives on (when they 
thoughtlessly feel that the wife should know the hus¬ 
band loves her without daily effort of either verbal or 
moral proof) I would prefer an attic and a crust with 
unselfishness and loving expression. There is no fear 
nor doubt where perfect love exists.” 

“That is so like you, dearest. I promise always to 
faithfully provide, and never will I forget that woman’s 
chief necessity in life is affection,—and plenty of it 
too.” 

“Thank you, Carston.” 


GLAD RAY 


205 


“Shall we go in, Betty ?” 

“I think so, dear.” 

“Then, you darling dimpled kiddy, just one more of 
those wonderful kisses.” 

The happy lovers sealed the sacred promise with a 
depth of sincerity felt by few. 

After many arguments Carston and Betty persuaded 
the girl’s parents that an immediate marriage was the 
only practicable plan, and greatly desired by the lovers. 
On Saturday, Professor Ronning and Reverend Walk¬ 
er went to the Courthouse for the marriage license. 
Later they found a florist and ordered the church 
appropriately decorated. Betty and her mother pur¬ 
chased a simple but beautiful cream satin wedding 
gown and tulle veil, a becoming traveling suit, and a 
few minor accessories. 

Until late Saturday night, the church was being 
transformed into a bower of beauty. Sunday morning 
found at the entrance to each pew a beautiful bouquet 
of white carnations, ferns and smilax tied with white 
satin ribbon. Stately palms and hundreds of lilies 
banked the chancel rail. A soft carpet of velvety green 
moss covered the base of the altar on which rested two 
white satin pillows for the bride and groom to kneel 
upon during the benediction. 

There had been no invitations, but over the ’phone 
Betty has asked several of her friends to be sure to 
attend church in the morning for “very special ser¬ 
vices.” Among them were former members of her 
nurse’s graduating class and the internes who were in 
attendance while she was taking her course,—includ- 


206 


GLAD RAY 


ing Doctor Hallaway. As nearly every one connected 
with the Hospital had suspected something of the sort, 
the church was packed to the doors by ten-thirty. The 
regular members of the congregation came to the usual 
Sunday services and could not at first imagine the 
reason for the magnificent floral garnishment. The 
organist continued to play the usual music until after 
the sermon had been preached and time for the taking 
of the collection had arrived. Instead of the usual 
offertory, there sounded the opening strains of Lohen¬ 
grin’s Wedding March. Reverend Walker, much to 
the surprise of the church members, nodded toward the 
rear of the auditorium, and slowly, with her dimpled 
face wreathed in smiles, came the bride down the cen¬ 
ter aisle on the arm of Carston Ronning. 

Every head was turned to get a view of Betty whose 
tiny feet had difficulty in keeping step with the music. 
Carston was the picture of a happy groom,—his cheeks 
flushed and his eyes dancing. There was no embar¬ 
rassment. His massive build gave proof of physical 
ability to protect the charming girl by his side. When 
the bride and groom reached the altar, Mrs. Walker 
arose from one of the front seats and stood just behind 
her daughter. The deacons were then requested to 
rise and take their places to the left and right of the 
young couple. The organist played impressively from 
Schumann’s Traumerei as the simple ceremony pro¬ 
ceeded. 

With trembling voice and suppressed emotion, the 
minister-father pronounced them “Husband and Wife,” 


GLAD RAY 


207 


and raising his right hand reverently, concluded: “Let 
us pray.” 

Carston and Betty knelt together receiving the silent 
blessing of the bride’s mother, benediction of the fath¬ 
er, and good wishes of all the people. As they rose 
the organ sounded forth the Bridal Chorus. The hap¬ 
py pair turned about, and with Betty’s father and 
mother following, walked slowly to the vestry. Mrs. 
Walker, bride and groom went directly to the parson¬ 
age, but the minister turned back to finish his regular 
Sunday morning service. That afternoon Mr. and 
Mrs. Carston Ronning quietly received a few friends 
who called to offer their congratulations. 

“Take good care of our little girl,” whispered the 
sorrowing mother as she kissed her son-in-law good¬ 
bye just before the train left Louisville. 

“I promise to treat her as tenderly as I would a 
child, never for a moment forgetting the priceless 
value of your sacrifice,” and the artist looked frankly 
from one to the other as he spoke. 

“I believe you, Carston,” and the white haired pastor 
unable to say more, clasped his son-in-law’s hand. 

“Both of you have been so good and loving to me.” 
Betty’s large, brown eyes welled with tears. 

“Write frequently, my child. It will be terribly hard 
on us—this giving you to Carston with so little warn¬ 
ing. You are going away to a new country to be sur¬ 
rounded by strange faces. Be considerate, but conser¬ 
vative ; be kind to all, but practice the virtue of silence ; 
and pray for proper knowledge through the Grace of 
God. Feel assured, we will each day ask the Father’s 


208 


GLAD RAY 


blessing upon you and yours. Never will a morning 
dawn or an evening close, without our prayers ascend¬ 
ing to God for your health, peace and safety.” 

Betty was too overcome to speak. She clung first to 
her weeping mother and then to her father, who for his 
wife’s sake was bravely struggling with his grief. 

“We better get into the train, little wife.” 

“Goodbye, dearest souls. Oh, my blessed mother 
and father!” Once more Betty embraced her parents, 
after which Carston assisted her into the observation 
car from which the happy couple watched as long as it 
was possible to see the minister and his wife. 

In about half an hour the sun began to sink and a 
waiter announced the evening meal in the diner. Car¬ 
ston proposed that they go to their compartment and 
prepare for their first meal alone. 

“Very well, my own, big boy.” Betty had difficulty 
in keeping her balance as they walked through the 
swaying coaches. 

“We are going home, darling. Think of it! We are 
truly going HOME! Are you pleased, baby-wife?’* 

“Yes; going home,” she murmured. 


CHAPTER XV 


A S NUMBER 22 slowed down at a way station in 
Minnesota, Mrs. xMlen thrust her towsled head 
out of a window long enough to sniff the crisp pine 
laden air, then she bundled Glad Ray in her arms and 
stepped lightly from the coach to the cinder siding. 

While the train crew and a few passengers were 
ravenously devouring their soft boiled, toast and coffee, 
the loyal guardian of the precious child of love walked 
triumphantly along a beaten path, edged by weeds, 
toward the little freight house. So happy was this 
faithful woman in the consciousness of unselfish ser¬ 
vice that the prosaic path seemed a royal highway 
hedged with roses. 

“Free,” she murmured. “Glad Ray is free. If the 
parents never find her no one will know the stigma of 
her birth unless she tells.” The thought that Glad 
had been given her full rights by an act of Providence, 
and that she, Mrs. Allen, had been used in the work of 
the Master to save this little one from a life time of 
shame seemed to grip her very soul. 

Musing over the joys of self appointed motherhood 
Mrs. Allen reasoned if she were being used as a Mes¬ 
senger of the Father of us all, she need have no fear 
of her own future or that of the child. Just as an 
inkling of Truth dawns in human consciousness of 
woman the serpent begins to speak. 

209 


210 


GLAD RAY 


“Why not claim Glad Ray as my very own?” she 
mused. “No one ever will find us here. I can de¬ 
stroy the letter of her mother, proclaim to my rela¬ 
tives,”—Mrs. Allen may be forgiven for the sinful im¬ 
pulse seemingly inspired by the mother-cry suppressed 
all through the years. She looked up in alarm. The 
passengers were hurrying into the coaches. She bolted 
for the car and noted with apprehension the gravity 
of the train crew. Even the jolly conductor who had 
been piloting No. 22 safely over the route for so many 
years seemed distressed. She observed a crumpled 
yellow sheet of paper in his hand. Mrs. Allen found 
her way to her own double seat. Two men across the 
aisle were talking in whispers. Two women just in 
the rear were craning their necks to hear the conver¬ 
sation. Unable to restrain her curiosity longer, Mrs. 
Allen asked the “news butcher” what all the excitement 
was about. 

“Forest Fire,” he barked and a man nearby visibly 
trembled. It was evident to Mrs. Allen there had 
been a disaster of some kind. A fire meant nothing 
to her, little realizing the terror the word brings in 
the great Northwest. Presently the whispered con¬ 
versation ceased and the train moved forward. The 
conductor passed through the coach many times, al¬ 
ways stopping to look at the sleeping child. He would 
take off his cap and wipe beads of perspiration from 
his forehead. This happened so frequently that Mrs. 
Allen became alarmed. 

“What is it all about?”, she inquired as he paused 
on his beat. “Are we in danger?” 


GLAD RAY 


211 


“Very grave danger, madam,” he said quietly. “I 
have been unable to get this little girl off my mind.” 
Then realizing he had said too much he began to as¬ 
sure the woman there was no imminent cause for 
alarm. 

Perhaps an occasional reader will recall the con¬ 
flagration that swept the territory around Hinckley, 
Minnesota, the same year of the Mississippi Valley 
tornado. It seems all Nature conspired to rob Glad 
Ray of her rights; first the cyclone then the forest 
fire; the two events that shaped the child’s future. 

As Number 22 roared on, the passengers began to 
note the increased speed. The fireman, the engineer 
and the conductor were the only three men on the 
train who realized the real peril. The crumpled slip 
of yellow paper Mrs. Allen had seen had electrified the 
three stalwarts who, at a hurried conference decided to 
avert a panic by witholding the truth. It seems the 
fire had been raging for days in scattered areas. 
Now the whole state seemed aflame. Almost every 
hour the fire would be reported from a new quarter. 
Train schedules had been abandoned but thus far 
there had been no loss of life. Officials of the road 
had decided to send Number 22 through the territory 
when reports indicated there was but slight danger. 
When the train reached the last way station the first 
definite news or order was received by the crew. The 
telegram indicated the flames had leaped across the 
right of way after 22 had passed and were flying on 
the wings of the wind in hot pursuit. There was no 
turning back now, 


212 


GLAD RAY 


“Go ahead,” the message read, “full speed; run 
thru fire; your only chance.” 

Officials evidently realized the peril but saw no 
way of rescuing the ill-fated train. Small fires had 
been reported in advance of No. 22 but there was a 
space of cleared land on the other side of Hinckley to 
afford a temporary shelter. For some time the 
crew and passengers were detained for orders. For 
the first time signs of flames were visible ahead. The 
air was murky but the glaring sun vied with the mad¬ 
dening red screen. One could see in the distance 
moving mountains of red and black smoke sweeping 
toward the excited groups. 

Anxious passengers had been told to wet blankets 
for an immergency. They were advised in case of 
an unexpected outburst of fire to cover the windows, 
and if it should be necessary to leave the train and 
wrap the wet blankets around their bodies. The final 
instructions added to the alarm and women began to 
grow hysterical. Through it all Mrs. Allen, because 
of her ignorance of such danger, remained calm. Her 
only concern was for Glad Ray and she had prepared 
two dampened blankets for the child should the un¬ 
expected happen. Peering from windows the now 
wildly excited passengers could easily see great clouds 
of red, black, purple and gray smoke towering to the 
sky. Now and then a merciless and menacing tongue 
of red flame shot from the earth to the horizon. Mrs. 
Allen watched the picture cooly. On and on dashed 
Number 22, the man at the throttle oblivious to peril 
while his fireman stoked like one gone mad. Coaches 


GLAD RAY 


213 


began to sway, windows and doors rattled, and the 
train fairly rocking as the strain increased. All speed 
records were being broken. Children scrambled from 
parents laps and crying with fear were crushed back 
to mother’s breasts. The confusion grew more and 
more tense as, wild eyed, the conductor raced through 
the car toward the engine. The fireman had been over¬ 
come. Seizing the shovel from the reddened hands, 
thrusting the prostrate man aside he began to feed fuel 
into the hungry furnace. The fire seemed cool to his 
fevered face as the door opened and closed with re¬ 
sounding regularity. Black with smoke and frightfully 
burned from the flying embers, the engineer clung to 
the throttle. All he could see was a few feet of clear 
track ahead. 

Glad Ray enjoyed the confusion immensely. All 
eyes and attention, she was innocent of all danger. 
Her smiles and happy exclamations cheered many a 
terrorized soul. Mrs. Allen was amazed at the 
child’s disregard for the fears of others. She had 
tried to tuck a wet blanket around the little one’s body 
but Glad refused to be “wetted.” She even insisted on 
caressing a crying little boy who came stumbling by. 
She gloried in the occassional glimpses of the trees, 
some ashen, some red. 

Fairly bounding from the rails the train roared on, 
going where,—no man knew. Every moment it 
seemed, the coaches would leap the grade. Flashes of 
flame, at first separate and distinct, became a red glare. 
The heroic engineer, hair and eyebrows singed, face a 
blackened mass of burns, hands swollen to twice their 


214 


GLAD RAY 


normal size sat like one transfixed peering into space. 
Suddenly he jumped from the seat. “We’re riding 
into hell,” he shouted. He threw his full weight on the 
lever. The brakes screamed high above the roar of 
the flames. The engine quivered. Only the closed 
door of the furnace saved the conductor from plung¬ 
ing head first into the fire. “Track blocked ahead,” 
shouted the engineer, as the jamming coaches lurched. 
Flames were sweeping into the cab from every angle. 
Finally the train came to a full stop. The heat was 
terrible. The conductor scrambled over the tender to 
the first coach. The engineer started to follow. 
Down came a crashing pine pinning the helpless hero 
under it’s flaming branches. Cursing God, he died. 

There had been a rush for the rear of the train. The 
conductor tried to restore order in the first coach but 
passengers fought him like maniacs. Seemingly fore¬ 
warned, Mrs. Allen had bundled Glad Ray into a 
wet blanket and was half way down the aisle of the 
last coach when the final crash came. The car she 
was in and two others had toppled over on the bank 
carrying men, women and children to their funeral 
pyre. Mrs. Allen, who had been hurled to the floor, 
staggered to her feet with Glad still in her arms 
unharmed. She had at last realized the frightful holo- 
cust. Just ahead of her a benevolent gentleman was 
leading a gray haired woman to the back platform. 
Turning he saw Mrs. Allen and the baby and stepped 
aside. Frantic with fear she leaped to the ground 
while the aged man and his mate calmbored down. In 
her haste Mrs. Allen had forgotten a hand bag con- 


GLAD RAY 


215 


taining her mother’s watch and a roll of bills. Thrust¬ 
ing Glad Ray into the arms of the minister she fought 
her way back into the coach to recover her treasures. 
Realizing delay meant death, that he could do nothing 
to aid the others, the enfeebled old man and his mate 
began to creep back along the track where the flames 
were dying away as the conflagration sped before a 
changing wind. The screams died in the distance. 
Other stragglers scurried by, no one lending a helping 
hand to the man who had given his life to saving 
souls. Inspired by the sacred burden he held on one 
arm while the other guided the faltering footsteps of 
his wife, he crept slowly on toward a glimmer of light 
which led him away from the maddening furnace. It 
seemed miles to the aged man when in reality it was 
only a few hundred feet back to the land of a few 
living souls. He saw men scurrying past him toward 
the fire but could not understand their insane actions. 
He found his way to the only clear space and read a 
signboard which told him they had reached the town of 
Hinckley. The volunteer fire department including 
every male resident who could wield a bucket formed 
a long brigade from a tank less than 300 feet from the 
ill-fated train, and the fight for life began. It was 
like tossing a pint of water into a roaring furnace. 
Only those who had made their way to the rear coach 
escaped death. 

Mrs. Allen despite the panic stricken mob fought her 
way into the coach. Deranged by the terrifying scene, 
hardly knowing where she was going or why, the 
guardian of Glad Ray raced down the aisle of the now 


216 


GLAD RAY 


burning car, and blocked by a wall of smoke tried to 
turn back. In her confusion she missed a step between 
the two rear coaches and plunged headlong into the 
flames. She died almost instantly. The charred re¬ 
mains were recovered in less than an hour after the 
tragedy when the resucers succeeded in subdueing the 
fire and the ruins had been searched. Out of all the 
wreckage the only article found of seeming importance 
was the iron trunk that contained the meager belong¬ 
ings of Glad Ray and the letter telling the secret of 
her birth. 

When the aged minister began to recover his senses 
he gazed in awe at the smiling child in his arms. 
By a strange trick or fate the iron trunk finally was 
associated with Glad Ray. The rescuers had discover¬ 
ed a black bag tied to the child’s waist bearing the 
name of Mrs. Allen and a letter from her relative at 
Pine Lake telling her to come on with the little girl. 
The bag also contained the pasteboard baggage check 
which was found to correspond with the blackened 
brass tag wired to the iron trunk. 

By daybreak, the town of Hinckley had become a 
charred waste of burned stumps, ruins and swamp. 
The forest fire, driven by changing winds, traveled 
rapidly toward the western part of the state, where its 
harvest was still richer in older and dryer pines. The 
man and woman who had consented to care for Glad 
Ray while Mrs. Allen forced her way back into the 
sleeper, were bound for Duluth. The clergyman con¬ 
sidered it his duty to see that the baby girl reached 


GLAD RAY 


217 


“Jack Sullivan’s Tavern, Pine Lake, via Duluth,” just 
as the tag on the handbag directed. 

After several hours’ tedious waiting on water- 
soaked land, another train arrived and carried the 
weary, half-sick passengers into Duluth, where Glad 
Ray encountered numerous strange faces and North¬ 
ern indifference. Big-hearted Jack Sullivan was there, 
however, to meet his distant relative, and after many 
inquiries the minister located him among the watchers 
at the depot, and told him the story of the tragedy. 

“So she left this little gel, did she?” Tears filled 
his eyes and rolled softly down his honest, weather¬ 
beaten face. 

“Whose child is she, do you know ?” asked Sullivan. 

“Your late relative’s handbag contains letters which 
may give you the necessary information.” 

After the keeper of the Pike Lake Tavern looked 
through the bag and was convinced that Stella Allen 
had been the guardian of the baby, and after he had 
read the name of “Glad Ray” on the gold locket, he 
stooped down and in his generous, well-meaning way 
spoke to the lonely babe. 

“So ye’ve come to live wid me, hev ye?” 

No answer; but the long fringed lashes slowly lifted 
and two soulful, brown eyes looked into those of faded 
grey with the most appealing expression Jack Sullivan 
ever had seen. 

“What’s yer name, baby?” 

“Me no baby,—me bid durl.” 

Those standing about the child smiled as the sweet 
bird-like voice responded so independently. 


218 


GLAD RAY 


“Thet’s right; ye air a big gel.” He patted the soft 
cheek where many tears and soiled chubby fingers had 
left their imprints. “Now tell me, what es yer name?” 

“Dlad,” she promptly replied. 

“Is it Glad ?” Do you mean ‘Glad Ray’ ?” 

“Es, Dlad Way.” Without further hesitancy she 
raised her plump, baby arms to be taken. “Peez, 
takey me; I id orsul tired. Peez tarry me home.” 

“I guess ye hev won out, kid. Think I’ll take ye 
fer keeps. God hez put a little sunshine into my life 
after all.” 

Jack Sullivan thanked those who had been kind. He 
then gathered Glad Ray in his arms and walked out 
of the station to his waiting surrey. 

“It’s a long ride ye hev before ye but kid, let yer 
Uncle Jack tell ye, it’s home fer ye and me.” Under 
his breath he added: “Wonder what kind o’hell 
Susan ’ll raise whin I struts in wid dis kid. Let her 
holler; dis kid’s mine, fer keeps.” 

He gently tickled the neck of old Jennie with the tip 
of his whip, and her nose pointed toward Pike Lake. 
Side by side, the rugged, good natured keeper, and the 
wee, innocent stranger started on the home stretch. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


G LAD Ray soon left her lisping babyhood days, and 
at the age of seven had become the unpaid little 
helper at Pike Lake Tavern. Susan Sullivan had 
learned to care for the child,—as much as she could 
care for anyone. She mothered Glad, but placed bur¬ 
dens on her little shoulders rather heavy for one of her 
years. Susan’s affection depended on how much work 
the calloused and coarsened hands had been able to do. 
The slender delicate body seldom bent under its heavy 
labors, as sympathetic Jack Sullivan was always “hang- 
in’ ’round.” He invariably “fetched” the wood or 
“brung” in the buckets of water. 

Jack Sullivan had a weekly route of Duluth cus¬ 
tomers to whom he delivered eggs, butter and milk. 
During the summer tourist season, the Pike Lake Tav¬ 
ern folk could consume all their own products, but be¬ 
tween October and May earning a living was a prob¬ 
lem, and they found the selling of butter, eggs and 
milk fairly profitable. On some of these long, tedious 
trips little Glad Ray would cuddle up in a huge, well- 
worn Buffalo robe and make the dreary, cold trip from 
Pike Lake to Duluth with her foster Uncle. He al¬ 
ways was pleased to have her along, as it eased his 
mind to know the child was not working too hard. It 
never occurred to Susan, childless soul, that a sensi- 

219 


220 


GLAD RAY 


tive, growing girl hardly out of the baby ages, could 
not do the general household drudgery as easily as she. 
Ever so often, she would permit Glad Ray to rest, but 
within a few moments the old woman’s shrill voice 
would ring out: 

“Don’t let yer feet git glued to the shpot, we have 
supper tuh git and the wurk ez not done yit.” 

Glad Ray long ago learned to curb resentment. 

The child grew to seven years with somewhat of a 
whipped-dog expression, and an obedience more pa¬ 
thetic because her features invariably curved them¬ 
selves into a fascinating, willing smile—as though it 
were a privilege to serve Susan simply for bits of 
praise such as: 

“Looks nice, my chil’,” or “here ez a cookie,” or “this 
was good ’nuff fer this toime,—next you’ll do bether.” 

Shortly after Christmas, we find Glad Ray in Du¬ 
luth sitting on the box seat of the old wagon, all 
bundled up in the well-worn robe. She was waiting 
patiently for her Uncle Jack to come out of the kitchen 
entrance of the Anstrum home. Mrs. Anstrum was a 
snobbish, well-meaning woman, but much worn out 
from bearing four noisy boys and two very freckle¬ 
faced, poorly-trained, selfish girls ranging in ages from 
two and a half to fourteen years. As a housekeeper, 
Mrs. Anstrum was a good, cheap, novel reader; as a 
maker of children’s garments and the famliy mender, 
she was a better sleeper; as a disciplinarian she was a 
hysterical preacher and self-sympathizer; as a cook 
she was head of her class in satisfying the gorman¬ 
dizing appetites of her children on candies, cookies, 


GLAD RAY 


221 


uncooked dried fruits, slathers of cold boiled ham from 
the nearby delecatesen or canned soups with soda 
crackers; as a wife, Mrs. Anstrum was a whirlwind 
for camouflaging - appearances and rounding corners 
whenever her “traveling-man” husband was expected 
home. 

On Friday nights all the Anstrums had their 
weekly baths; all the beds were “slicked over” and 
called, “made;” the rugs and carpets were given a 
“lick and a promise;” the piles of dirty dishes, which 
always accumulated from Monday until Friday, were 
washed; the kitchen floor received its weekly mop¬ 
ping; and Mrs. Anstrum managed to curl her hair. 
Using sufficient energy to roast meats, bake or boil 
vegetables during any period between Mr. Anstrum’s 
week-end visits was a mother-duty of which Mrs. An¬ 
strum knew nothing. Her patient husband, Axel, was 
a trusting and excusing man, who had not discovered 
his wife’s laziness. Faithfully he handed over his 
monthly check, keeping only his surplus expense ac¬ 
count. Mrs. Anstrum seldom made an effort to save 
for she told herself, “with bringing up six husky child¬ 
ren, clothing and educating them, I am almost worn 
to a frazzle trying to make both ends meet.” It never 
occurred to her that a good stewed dinner, or an old 
fashioned boiled one, would be cheaper, nourishing and 
more satisfying to her six hopefuls. Neither did she 
care whether a change from her apathetic methods 
would increase her savings. What was bothering her 
now, she was explaining to Jack Sullivan, as she paid 
for the butter and eggs, was how she could get along 


222 


GLAD RAY 


without a maid, and worse yet—she couldn’t afford to 
pay the terrible wages they demanded. 

“Wal—I wuz a thinkin’ thet my niece, sittin’ out 
yonder on the wagon, might help you a bit. She’s jest 
seven, and she moight git her board en clothes off 
you, and pay fer em with wurk before school an’ after. 
P’raps you air lookin’ fer somebody stronger,—eh?” 

“Can she wash dishes?” 

“Bet she kin. She hez done thet since she wuz four 
whin she’d haf to stan’ on a chair to reach the drain.” 

“Well, I am so busy sewing that I need someone just 
to wash and wipe the dishes. I would do most of the 
housework. Mrs. Anstrum sighed and looked so for¬ 
lorn, that Jack Sullivan suggested he call Glad Ray 
and have her come in for inspection. Verily the beau¬ 
tiful child was inspected. Three of the Anstrum 
children had returned from school, but as it was the 
day the house was tidied over, and good things being 
cooked, they were all on their good behavior. Jack 
Sullivan always came late on Fridays, generally after 
the weekly cleaning, and thought Mrs. Anstrum posed 
as the model, hard-working housewife and worn-out 
mother. He and Axel remained in sweet ignorance 
of her lackadaisical methods. 

“What’s your name, dear?” Mrs. Anstrum inquired. 

“Glad Ray,” and the one slender knee bent slightly 
in polite courtesy. 

“My,—she is a precocious child,” commented the 
woman, airing a term which had impresed her as an 
appropriate one to be tried out on her husband. 

“I don’t know what thet means, but if ye air meanin’ 



GLAD RAY 


223 


she ez well behaved, she ez meek an’ purfect, an’ ez 
good ez they make em.” 

“Would you like to go to school?” questioned the 
calculating woman. 

“Yes, ma’am,—I’d love it.” 

“Well, would you help me before and after school, 
if I gave you this chance?” 

“Oh, yes, ma’am,” the innocent child answered eag¬ 
erly. 

“Could she stay today, Mr. Sullivan? I am so ter¬ 
ribly busy that she would be such a help.” 

“Wal,—I don’t know what my ol’ woman will say; 
but I guess she kin stay. She haint got iny other 
shooz but theez’en she hez on, but I reckin you kin find 
some ol’ ones, caint yuh?” 

“Oh, yes, I’ll see she has shoes. The city furnishes 
all school books, and Glad Ray’s services means being 
an obedient, helpful daughter. There is nothing I 
won’t do to make her happy and one of my family. 
She is a little young,” soliliquized Mrs. Anstrum, “but 
she will soon learn and have plenty of time for play.” 

Poor Jack Sullivan thought he was bettering his 
foster child’s opportunities. He earnestly wanted 
her to attend the city school and escape many of the 
heavy labors Susan forced on her. Glad Ray clung 
to her Uncle, crying: “Please think of me every 
day, and don’t fail to come here every Friday, will 
you ?” 

“Shure oi will, me darlint. Its your good oim 
thinkin’ of. Don’t cry, or you’ll make yer of’ Uncle 
feel sorry.” 


224 


GLAD RAY 


Glad Ray obediently smiled as she removed her coat 
and untied her woolen hood. 

‘‘Now, say 'goodbye’ to your Uncle Jack. You may 
call me ‘Aunt Nettie,’ that is my first name.” 

“Thank you,” came again from the mobile lips, and 
‘Aunt Nettie’ winced under the pressure of her con¬ 
science while secretly noting the labor she intended to 
demand. 

Mr. Anstrum arrived from his weekly business trip 
before breakfast on Saturday. He told his wife if she 
had little Glad Ray in the home to share the work 
equally with the two girls, he was delighted, but she 
must not expect to make an unpaid servant of an 
infant. 

“How horrid you talk to me, your wife. Seems you 
forget that I am always slaving for you and your 
children. Shame on you, Axel Anstrum. I do' a 
thousand things, and take as many steps myself, just to 
save the strength of YOUR children,” she argued un¬ 
reasonably. 

“Cut it out, Nettie. You are tired. Who in the 
devil said anything about MY children ? Suppose they 
are not yours, too, are they ? Possibly we found them, 
like Moses, in the rushes. Come on, dear, be fair. 
All I ask is to treat that beautiful, baby girl with the 
same consideration you would want some other mother 
to treat our Selma and Inga.” 

The children had been listening and tittered softly. 
They knew their mother. The father was contented 
to drop the subject to avoid any further tears and 
lamentations. 


GLAD RAY 


225 


Saturday morning Selma Anstrum cleared the table 
of the breakfast dishes, and piled them in ugly un¬ 
systematic heaps on the kitchen sink and work table. 
Inga, the younger of the two girls, used the hair- 
filled sweeper over the dining room rug and brushed 
the chips and soot away before the open fireplace. Mr. 
Anstrum filled the huge woodbox in the kitchen and 
noticed how neatly glad Ray separated the silverplated 
ware from the gaudy, much chipped French China. 

“You have a jewel in that little worker in the 
kitchen, Nettie. She will be quite a good example for 
the two girls.” 

“She will, if you do not interfere with my business 
and spoil her. Leave the child to me, and I’ll have a 
real maid, by the time she is a very few years older, and 
it won’t cost you a cent.” 

Axel Anstrum sighed. He had a flash-back of the 
time he had played stoker on shipboard to earn his 
way over to this land of golden dreams; and of boot- 
black days and sleeping in pine dry goods boxes, until 
a good farmer’s wife took him in and treated the home¬ 
less immigrant as she would have wanted another 
mother to have treated her only son. He had died of 
apoplexy the year before. Axel had worn the dead 
son’s old and good clothes and performed the duties 
which had been those of the departed. After a few 
years the family adopted Axel and gave him their 
family name of Anstrum, which was not unlike the 
name of his dead parents, Ansen. So, Axel Anstrum 
was more fortunate than most immigrant youths. 


226 


GLAD RAY 


Later, he was sent to St. Paul to High School where 
he graduated, and then entered Agricultural College. 
Shortly after he returned to the farm Mr. Anstrum, 
Sr., passed away of paralysis. The mother seemed too 
crushed in grief to endure remaining on the old home¬ 
stead. She sold the farm and, with Axel, moved to St. 
Paul, where he entered Business College. He then ac¬ 
cepted a position in the office of the same Wire and 
Machinery Manufacturing Company with which he 
was identified when we find Glad Ray sharing in the 
household duties of the Anstrum home. Axel An¬ 
strum had only remained in the office of his firm for a 
short period, when he was appointed State Represen¬ 
tative. At the time of his promotion he married Nettie 
Bangs, and they, with his adopted mother, went to 
housekeeping in a tiny cottage, about the first invest¬ 
ment Axel had ever made. Before the birth of Orsen, 
the oldest child, marauders forced their way into the 
cottage of the Anstrums during one of Axel’s regular 
out-of-town trips. Nettie, his wife, was weak and 
frightened. Mrs. Anstrum, Sr., though old and feeble, 
bravely entered the hallway where she encountered the 
intruders. When the gun-men ordered her out of their 
way, the older woman pleaded with the men to leave, 
explaining that her daughter-in-law was in no condi¬ 
tion to be frightened. Finding this appeal of no avail, 
she stood defiantly before Nettie to protect her from 
the vicious suggestive scrutiny of one of the two bul¬ 
lies. This antagonized the thief and he shot the aged 
woman through the heart. When Axel Anstrum re¬ 
turned, after a summons by wire, he found not only 


GLAD RAY 


227 


the funeral details to arrange but also a son. His 
faithful, sacrificing mother’s girlhood name had been 
Mattie Selma Orsen,—so he called his first-born 
“Orsen.” 

All of this rushed quickly before Axel Anstrum, 
and he repeated cautiously, but none the less emphati¬ 
cally: “I warn you, to treat Glad Ray as my saintly, 
adopted mother treated me. Let the little girl be an 
example, if you wish to, Nettie,—but have our child¬ 
ren do exactly as much to help you as Glad Ray is 
expected to do.” 

“Trust me, Axel, to be a good disciplinarian. I 
know what is best for my household. I have not borne 
you six children, the oldest fourteen and the youngest 
two and a half years, without learning how to train 
them, and the meaning of ‘justice/ ” 

“I hope so, Nettie,” he sighed tolerantly, wondering 
at the same time if he happened to arrive home unex- 
pectantly on Wednesday morning, instead of Saturday, 
what he would discover. He didn't want to do it; he 
didn’t want to be disillusioned. Nettie had neglected 
many of her former charming and neat ways but, he 
considered, possibly he had expected too much. How¬ 
ever, he had a faint suspicion that his sons had special 
Saturday and Sunday manners, since he had overheard 
parts of their conversation. He had once or twice 
heard his wife say: “Well, pin it, until your father 
goes,” or “wait until your father goes and then you 
may perform, but for heavens sake act correctly and 
well trained while he is home;” or “stuff those soiled 
clothes way back in Orsen’s closet, but remember where 


228 


GLAD RAY 


you put themor “don’t talk about cold meats, cottage 
cheese or pigs feet, or your father will think we live on 
delicatessen foods.” 

After Glad Ray had carefully washed the breakfast 
dishes for nine, scalded them, dried and put them 
away, she scoured the sink and faucets. She made a 
knee pad of an old piece of carpet she found in the 
woodshed and scrubbed the floor. Lastly, she finished 
her morning duties by polishing the two stoves—the 
gas and range. It was quite a shock to Mr. and Mrs. 
Anstrum when they discovered what a child CAN do 
who is brought up on cold, calculating judgment in¬ 
stead of hysterical sentiment. Glad Ray had removed 
her apron and hung it on the rack beside the range to 
dry. 

“After I make up my cot, can I please play with 
the children ?” she asked of her protectors. 

“Yes, you may; but while you are upstairs, slick up 
the boy’s beds, cedar mop around the floor and place 
their best shoes and clothes in their closets, will you?" 

“Yes, ma’am,” she sighed, as she recalled it would 
only be an hour before time to prepare luncheon. 

Axel Anstrum let Glad Ray reach the top floor be¬ 
fore he addresed his wife. 

“Nettie, how could you deprive that youngster of 
her little request after she had worked so hard and 
cleaned better than the girls ever have done for you ?” 

“Now you are butting in,—don’t try it Axel, unless 
you want a scene. My nerves are so completely up¬ 
set, I can’t stand to have you come home Saturdays 
and change our routine.” 


GLAD RAY 


229 


“I am going out and call the boys into the house and 
order them to pick up their own clothes and shoes, 
make their own beds and cedar mop their own floors. 
Nettie, it is their business to do this, and is a part of 
all boys’ and girls’ home instruction. How can Glad 
Ray ever go to school if you make her wait on our four 
strapping thoughtless boys.” 

“My sons are not thoughtless, and you have some 
other woman you care for more than you do me, or 
you’d not return to pick on your wife as a disciplinar¬ 
ian in this perfectly absurd manner.” With this, Net¬ 
tie Anstrum burst into a paroxysm of tears and moans, 
throwing herself into her husband’s arms. 

“Good gracious, I only want the boys to become 
considerate men. Don’t cry Nettie, you’ll get me so 
I’ll not want to come home. I want you to do the right 
thing by this unfortunate child, and—and, I don’t think 
it’s fair to compel her to make the boys’ beds.” 

“There you go, again! Who is the woman who is 
luring my husband away from me ? I am almost crazy, 
I tell you,—you are cruel to me, Axel. I am almost 
crazy,” she repeated. 

“Crazy! You act like it,” he responded, assisting 
her to a chair where she rested her tear stained face 
against the palms of her hands and swayed from side 
to side. “Excuse me, Nettie, I am going down on Su¬ 
perior Street to see a party on business.” 

“Axel! Axel! Please don’t leave me.” 

Disgusted and angered, Axel Anstrum left the house, 
slamming the door with a bang. At the corner he met 
his boys, four of them,—the baby, named Theodore, 


230 


GLAD RAY 


age two and a half years; Earl, four years old; Ben- 
sen, husky and tall for his six years; and Orsen, four¬ 
teen. All were having a battle of snowballs. The two 
girls, Inga, who was past eight, and Selma, twelve, 
were pegging away at a snow fort of their own mak¬ 
ing. Eager young Americans,—human, healthy and 
thoughtless. 

“Come here,” roared Axel Anstrum, in a voice which 
quite frightened his brood. “Come here, I say.” 

His six startled children rushed up before him in 
breathless amazement. “Go into the house, go right up 
to your rooms and make your beds, cedar mop your 
floors, and put your best clothes and shoes neatly 
away for tomorrow,—those that you had on when you 
expected me for breakfast. I shall return in ten minu¬ 
tes and expect to see your work well done. Don’t ask 
Glad Ray to assist you, but ask her to play some more, 
as soon as you have obeyed me. Do you hear ?” 

“Yep,” they chorused. 

“Orsen, you help the baby with his little bed, but 
let him think he is doing most of it anyway. I’ve got 
to teach you youngsters what it means to be real hon¬ 
est members of a hardworking, American family. 
Now don’t stop to talk it over with mamma. She is 
sick. Do as I tell you, or there will be a different war. 
Hear me?” 

“Yep,” they repeated in unison. 

“I’ll teach you to say ‘yes, father,’ next lesson.” 
Axel Anstrum marchel along down the hill to Superior 
Street, not knowing exactly where he intended to 
“meet a party on business.” 


GLAD RAY 


231 


Glad Ray was dumbfounded when the noisy six all 
bore down and took her assignment away. She noted 
the melting snow they had brought in, and the dirty 
mud and water it left. 

“Come on Glad, father says you are to bundle up 
and play “battle” with us, so we’re ready now. 

“But your beds haint made good enough,” she 
gasped. 

“Oh, never mind,—the top is smooth,” responded 
Bensen, in boy fashion. 

“But—the sheets air all twisted.” 

“Blame the sheets! We should worry about the 
sheets,” to which remark they all giggled. “Monday 
and all next week until Friday night we won’t make 
beds, nor know that we’ve got sheets at tall ” asserted 
Orsen authoritatively. “Come along, or ma’ll come up 
and raise the roof because we’ve made too much noise 
for her daily headaches.” 

“Her daily fits,” added Inga, and again the children 
suppresed their laughter with difficulty. All this was 
new to Glad Ray. She accompanied the children 
downstairs and out into the open, intending to wipe up 
the muddy spots left from their uncleaned shoes as 
soon as she came back. Grammar was unknown at 
the Sullivan Pike Lake Tavern, so little Glad Ray used 
the dialect she had heard from babyhood as spoken by 
her foster Aunt and Uncle. Her instinct was so keen 
and her sense of discernment so quick that anything 
new and pleasing was promptly appropriated. 

“What’s your full name?” asked Bensen of their 
newly acquired companion. 


232 


GLAD RAY 


“Glad Ray,” she promptly replied, and innocently. 

“Aint it Glad Sullivan?” he persisted. 

“Nope,—jist Glad Ray.” 

“What’s your father’s name?” inquired Orsen, whose 
curiosity was now aroused. 

“Don’t know; Uncle Jack never found out. I don’t 
know nothin’ ’bout my mother neither; she jist up and 
died I guess,” the child sighed. 

“Ha! ha!” chimed Selma, “just like the school 
teacher told us of Topsy—only Topsy was a picca¬ 
ninny. Topsy was discovered and she didn’t know 
nothing ’bout herself neither.” 

“Well, Glad is white anyway,” added Orsen pro- 
tectingly. 

“Maybe. She don’t know what she is, ’cept ma is 
going to make a maid out of her, after she learns how 
to do the waitin’ on our table, kinda swell, like Mrs. 
Tooney’s maid does,” and Inga added her little mono¬ 
logue. 

“Maids don’t go to school.” This from Orsen. 
“Glad Ray came down from Pike Lake to go to school, 
and to pay her way by helpin’ like we all ought’a do 
when dad’s out on the road.” 

“Oh, close your two cents! Who’s asking you to tell 
what ma’s going to do? Inga and I know, for we 
heard her tell Dad if he 'wouldn’t butt in’ she would 
have Glad Ray perfectly trained as a maid as soon as 
she was a little older, and it wouldn’t cost Dad a cent 
neither,” and Selma tossed her proud head saucily. 

“Glad Ray’s just as good as you be, and better. She 
don’t say mean things of nobody,” flared back Orsen. 


GLAD RAY 


233 


'‘You betchu,—she is nice all the time and I wish she 
was my truly sister,” defended Bensen. 

"Let’s play” interrupted Inga. "Glad will haf’ to 
go into the house in a few minutes to peel the taters, 
and I want her on my side.” 

The children completed their tasks and rushed out 
the front door with Glad Ray excited and rosy. The 
snow-battle raged, and Glad played with the same en¬ 
thusiasm to win and be happy, that she displayed in 
every activity. Only when Mrs. Anstrum’s shrill voice 
was heard did the children cease. 

"Gla—ad,” she sang out in that high, agonizing key 
which could easily be the ascending and painful climax 
to a poorly pitched song. "Come here at once.” Obe¬ 
diently the little helper responded.. 

"Didn’t I tell you I’d need you to start lunch?” 

"Yes, ma’am,—but Mr. Anstrum told the children to 
come in the house, make their own beds, and have me 
go out with ’em; and I thought as he was the Papa, 
he ought’a know.” 

"Oh,, you did, did you? Well, I’ll tell him, like I’m 
telling you now, I am the boss, and I want you to know 
it. Don’t you dare leave the house again without my 
permission. Do you hear me?” With this she angrily 
jerked Glad up the steps. 

"Yes, ma’am, I hear. I’ll always ask you after this, 
ma’am.” 

"You better, if you want to live in the same house 
with me.” 

Mr. Anstrum forgot to come home for lunch. It 
was about five o’clock, and quite dark, when he walked 


234 


GLAD RAY 


rather unsteadily into the house, breath and clothes 
reeking with liquor. Mrs. Anstrum had entered the 
front hall ostensibly to find the baby’s rubbers,—a duty 
seldom performed, and possibly she didn’t even know 
that little Theodore, her youngest born, ever required 
rubbers. 

“Why Axel, you have been drinking. Is this curse 
to be laid at my door with all my other burdens ?” 

“Shut up, and attend to your own bizhness. I’ll eat 
shupper when you’ve got it ready. I’m as ’sungry as 
a wolf.” 

“Oh, Axel,”—she started to wail. 

“If you want me to shtay in thish shouse, shut up,” 
he roared. “I’m not drunk, but I will be shoon if you 
make me leave now, or sh’tart to rantin’. Who’s boss, 
I shay?” 

Mrs. Anstrum directed the children, excepting Sel¬ 
ma, to wash up for supper, Selma to set the table and 
Glad Ray hurried to the kitchen. “I’ll go with Glad 
Ray, myself, as she doesn’t know a thing without my 
guidance, of course. Axel, you rest on the sofa until I 
call you.” 

“Thas right, and be quick about it. I’m hungry.” 

After supper, during which there had been silence 
and tears from Mrs. Anstrum’s green-gray eyes, there 
were the usual duties, and little Glad Ray was pleased 
to show “Aunt Nettie” how to set buckwheat batter 
for the hotcakes in the morning. 

Glad was very weary, and grateful when Mr. An¬ 
strum instructed the children to wash their “feet, 
hands, teeth and pile into bed without noise,” or he’d 


GLAD RAY 


235 


“come up to investigate.” In no time the tired, deli¬ 
cate body was resting in deserved sleep, with the An- 
strum alarm clock (set for seven A. M. on Sunday) 
close to her pillow. The clock had been placed there, 
by “Aunt Nettie/’ so that Glad could turn off the alarm 
quickly and not disturb any other member of the 
household. 

On Monday just before he left for his trip, Mr. An- 
strum instructed his wife not to fail to have Glad Ray 
attend school regularly and promptly. He suggested 
she write the Principal a little note introducing Glad 
Ray and mentioning the fact she was now a member 
of the Anstrum family. Mrs. Anstrum promised but 
promptly forgot. 

On the following Friday trouble was brewing again. 

“Ah, ma,” began Orsen, “can’t Glad mop up the 
kitchen floor after school? Gee wiz, we never had it 
mopped every mornin’ before. Besides, she’s been 
tardy three mornin’s this week already, and her teacher 
spoke to me ’bout it. I know it’s ’cause you make her 
mop up. Aint washin’ an’ wipin’ the dishes ’nuff, 
’cept when we clean up for pop?’’ 

“How dare you speak to your unselfish, slaving 
mother like that? Shame on you! If Glad Ray 
doesn’t want to be tardy, nobody is keeping her from 
getting up an hour earlier. She certainly must learn 
system.” 

“My teacher says growin’ girls and boys need from 
eight to nine hours sleep,” piped Selma. 

“Your teacher is not runing my home,—and you 
children run along now. You are not supposed to be 


236 


GLAD RAY 


the companions of our little maid, anyway. She will 
start to school as soon as she is ready, her duties done, 
and not one instant before.” 

With this admonition Nettie Anstrum fairly shoved 
the four oldest off to school; bundled up the two 
youngest and sent them outdoors to amuse themselves; 
pulled out a cheap paper novel from beneath a load of 
camouflage mending, and seated herself in the huge 
leather rocker in the parlor where, for the next two 
hours, she intended to read and sleep. 

“I’m finished now, Aunt Nettie, and all washed up 
too. Kin I go to school, please ?” pleaded a faint voice 
beside the engrossed reader. 

“My! You frightened me. I’m liable to have a 
sinking spell. Perhaps you’d better remain home to¬ 
day and play with baby Theodore and Earl. Poor 
Earl, he never has as much pleasure as the others, he 
is so young—neither boy nor baby. Will you play 
today,—at least until half past eleven when I want you 
to fry the potatoes left over from yesterday, boil the 
thirty frankforts, pour the top off the three quart bot¬ 
tles of milk, saving the top for my tea. I need the 
nourishment dreadfully, and the skimmed milk will be 
sufficient for all of the children. Cut plenty of bread, 
and give each one a thin pat of butter and set the jar 
out again in the shed. Can you remember all that?” 

“I think so,” sighed Glad. “So today you want me 
to play with Earl, watch little Theodore and stay away 
from school?” 

“That is it, dearie. Run along like a good little 
girl.” 


GLAD RAY 


237 


“Tomorrow—?” 

“Never mind tomorow; run along.” 

So it was ever thus. Glad Ray was late for school 
almost every day, and absent at least one day in a week 
and sometimes three. Of course it was less important 
in the third grade,—the grade for which she qualified 
after being “tried out” in the first and second readers. 
This promotion brought her in the same room and class 
with eight year old Inga, and two rooms above six year 
old Bensen. This irritated Nettie Anstrum beyond 
endurance that a mere foundling should progress more 
rapidly than her own offspring. She did feel a primi¬ 
tive pride that they all stood fairly well in their classes, 
but it more than touched the primitive (it hurt her 
social aspirations) to have Glad Ray’s marks so ex¬ 
ceptionally high. 

One Sunday, when Axel was at home, little Glad’s 
face looked unusually flushed, and her soft brown eyes 
glistened with a peculiar brilliancy which greatly wor¬ 
ried the patient father. 

“Aren’t you feeling well, dear?” enquired Mr. An¬ 
strum kindly. The half-exhausted child commenced to 
cry. 

“I—don’t—know,” she sobbed. 

“Where are you sick, Glad ? Don’t be afraid; tell me, 
child. I want to help you.” 

“My—head and back ache. ’Taint right up here,” 
and Glad Ray ran her fingers across her forehead. 
“Everything runs ’round and ’round, and I caint stop 
the swimmy feelin.’ ” 

“Nettie, this child has a rather high temperature, I 


238 


GLAD RAY 


am thinking. Where is the castor oil ? She must have 
a tablespoonful, or two, go to bed immediately, and 
remain there until her head feels better and her fever 
has gone down. It may be the grippe, but maybe she’s 
only tired,” commented the husband reflectively. 

“She never told me about not feeling well. I am so 
good to her too. It is funny she would act that way 
toward me, the one who took her in and gave her the 
opportunity to attend school.” And Nettie Anstrum 
sniffed coldly as she glanced unsympathetically at the 
tear-stained, feverish countenance. Axel Anstrum 
went at once into the untidy pantry where he found the 
castor oil hidden behind some unkempt glasses half 
filled with moulded jelly. Painstakingly he mixed the 
laxative with a few tablespoonsful of orange juice. 

“Please, ma’m,—I was afraid.” 

“Afraid of what? One would think I beat you to 
listen to such utter nonsense.” 

“There! There! Here is your castor oil. I’ve 
mixed it with orange juice, and you can have the re¬ 
mainder of the orange to eat,” comforted Mr. An¬ 
strum. “I am going to have Doctor Taylor see this 
little girl this evening. All of our own children are 
liable to come down with whatever little Glad Ray has, 
you know.” 

“Well, if that is the reason, I’ll consent; but I can’t 
see that Glad Ray is sick enough to need a Doctor.” 

“She shall have one, anyway,” and with this final 
remark he ’phoned for the Anstrum family Physician. 
Later, after the Doctor had been there, it was decided 
to borrow a neighbor’s horse and buggy and drive Glad 


GLAD RAY 


239 


Ray to Pike Lake. Doctor Taylor had informed the 
Anstrums that Glad Ray had a well developed case of 
Typhoid Fever. The trip was hard on the little pa¬ 
tient, but the joy of seeing her Uncle Jack again was 
most soothing. 

“Wal, wal,—my little gel sick? Great scott, but 
your Uncle Jack is sorry! IT1 soon nurse you back to 
health agin, honey, thin you kin go back to Mr. and 
Mrs. Anstrums an’ to school. 

“She was such a good child, and stood so well in her 
studies, that we will miss her dreadfully,” hypocriti¬ 
cally assured Mrs. Anstrum. “Glad may return as soon 
as she is able to go back to school.” 

“Thank you, ma’am. You air a nice lady; I kin 
see ut in yer face,” broke in Susan. “I don’t see ez 
how I’m iver goin’ to do all my wurk, and keer fer the 
sick likes o’ her,—but the Lord provides I guess,—so 
I be a hopin’ thet I’ll be able to do me jewty ez I seez 
ut.” 

“Thets it, Susan,” assured Jack. “Little Glad Ray 
hez’unt a livin’ soul but us in the wurld, en we kind o’ 
feel like this ez the charity the Lord told about whin he 
sez, ‘Suffer em to cum unto me.’ I don’t know much 
’bout relijun, but I wants to do me jewty to this little 
gel. She shure ez a heap o’ sunshine.” 

“She is a wonderful child, Mr. Sullivan. I will send 
her clothes to you,” declared Mr. Anstrum sincerely, 
“and here is ten dollars to refill the Doctor’s prescrip¬ 
tion, and have him call again at the Tavern if needed. 
Should you need anything more for the little girl, drop 
me a line,—or drive around some Friday and let Mrs. 


240 


GLAD RAY 


Anstrum know what it is Glad Ray craves/’ Axel 
Anstrum, honest soul that he was, meant every word 
of his generous offer. “You have instructions about 
the child’s diet. The Doctor wrote this down in de¬ 
tail, so you cannot possibly make a mistake about feed¬ 
ing her anything more than a limited liquid diet and 
occasional beaten whites of eggs. Remember, posi¬ 
tively no solids.” 

“Thank you, sir,—en I’ll foller thim orders, sir,” an¬ 
swered Susan frightened at Glad Ray’s pathetic help¬ 
lessness. “I guess I’ve always ’s’pected heaps o’ her 
arms an’ legs, but she ez a diff-runt chil’ than iny I’ve 
hern tell about.” 

“She shure ez,” added old Sullivan, as they removed 
the clothing from the limp, hot body to place her in 
the spare room bed in the left wing of the Tavern. 
Ordinarily Glad Ray slept on a cot in the attic,—a big 
room, clean as an attic can be, whitewashed and syste¬ 
matically arranged with trunks, storage boxes, Glad 
Ray’s cot, a broken mirror, an old bench with wash 
basin and pitcher on it, and a few pictures the child 
had cut out of magazines left at the Tavern by hunters 
and tourists. The next day, Glad Ray was not con¬ 
scious of her surroundings, and Uncle Jack had to sit 
close lest the patient leave her bed, or throw off the 
covers in feverish delirium. 

“Please, please—don’t keep me away from school.” 

“Darlin’! Darlin’! You air home with Uncle 
Jack.” 

“Please, please don’t make me scrub the floor every 
mornin’. I’m always late, and my Aunt Susan’ll scold.” 


GLAD RAY 


241 


“Darlin’! You air home now. Aunt Susan’ll never 
scold. Git well, Lve missed you turribul like, and we 
love you. Kin you hear me, Glad ?” Old Susan, in her 
rough, honest fashion was trying to prove she really 
loved Glad. 

"I like my Aunt Susan better’n you. She ez honest. 
Aunt Nettie, you sometimes lie to your man. I’ve hern 
you lots o’ times.” 

“Thar,—thar, me darlin’! Uncle Jack ez here, so ez 
yer Aunt Susan. Don’t talk, honey, jist shleep.” 

Her delirium lasted two days and three nights. The 
joint owners of Pike Lake Tavern discovered what the 
golden haired, baby girl meant to them and they prom¬ 
ised if God spared her, she would become the sole heir 
to their many acres. After nine weeks of illness, the 
emaciated little patient was able to sit in the “settin’ ” 
room bay window, where she could look out at the leaf¬ 
less trees, see the tiny buds, and hear the many birds,— 
the first signs of Spring’s Awakening. Glad Ray was 
eight years old now, having had what the Sullivans 
reckoned was another birthday while away. 

“Wal, how’s my little gel, this mornin’?’’ greeted 
Uncle Jack Sullivan. 

“Fine, Uncle. I could almost race with the robins I 
see outside.” 

“Thet’s good. Soundin’ more like your’n own self, 
—you darlin.’ Here’s Aunt Susan with your tonic an' 
some preserves, toast, also white of egg.” 

“Thank you Auntie,—this looks so good,” and the 
convalescent began to nibble on the fresh crisp toast. 


242 


GLAD RAY 


“We want to ax you sumpthin’ this mornin’, darlin’. 
Be you anxious to git back to Anstrums an’ yer 
school ?” 

“No, Uncle Jack, I want to stay right home here 
with Aunt Susan and you, and I haint got no objec¬ 
tion to attendin’ the rural school every day. In fact 
I’m thinkin’ I’d ruther like it. I kin walk it by the 
openin’ of school next September. I’ll have all Sum¬ 
mer to git well.” 

Susan and Jack exchanged significant looks, and 
made up their minds that “their little gel hed wurked 
more’n her back would allow” and her illness was 
God’s way to rest the frail body. 

“Home—house. A house means nothin’ Aunt 
Susan, if folks lie and do things what their man 
would’a bin ashamed of. I’d much rather stay tuh 
home, thank you.” 

“Did she lie to him, darlin’ ?” 

“Let’s not say nothin’ Aunty, but just love one an¬ 
other, and all three on us be happy here. I couldn’t a 
bin happy at Anstrums, ’cept Mr. Anstrum was lovely 
when he come home. The children were nice too, an’ 
—an’—Mrs. Anstrum wanted to be nice,—honest she 
tried to,—she did. But she was trainin’ me fer her 
maid, and school didn’t count much. You caint blame 
her though, ’cause I got ahead of Bensen and Inga in 
my classes. Yes, I was jest put up in A class in Inga’s 
room, and Inga was left in B class, poor girl. Teacher 
said I was late so much thet she’d haf ’tuh report me 
if Mrs. Anstrum dint send me earlier. Then I got 
sick, so Mrs. Anstrum won’t need to worry ’bout what 


GLAD RAY 


243 


the Principal thinks of the teacher’s report. I haint 
a’goin’ to Duluth agin until I finish Grammar School 
and start in High, unless—unless—” 

“Unless what, me darlin’?” asked the old man with 
choking voice. 

“Unless they tell Uncle Jack to fetch me down to 
Selma’s birthday party which they were all plannin' 
fer. Her birthday is June Twenty-fourth, on a Satur¬ 
day, an’ her father’s goin’ to lead the games. He’s a 
nice father, but he haint home ’nuff to git his fambly 
to knowin’ him much. I kinda knowed him ’cause I 
felt sorry fer him.” 

“Well,—I’ll see Mrs. Anstrum whin I fetch the eggs, 
an’ I’ll hear if they wants my little gel.” 

“Thank you, Uncle, only don’t ax ’em, ’cause I was 
only a maid, an’ maids haint ’sposed to go with the 
Anstrums.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 


IKE the bursting huds of the late Spring, Glad 



I J Ray blossomed into the wonderful beauty of child¬ 
hood in perfect harmony with the great out doors. 
The ravages of the fever soon died away, her cheeks 
pinked, her lips puckered into a perpetual smile, her 
eyes danced like glistening stars. She whistled, she 
sang, she danced through the great wild woods about 
Pike Lake. The towering pines became her guardians, 
the leaping squirrels her playmates and the birds fairly 
burst their tiny throats to proclaim their love for the 
fairest child of the great Northwest. 

Grateful Jack Sullivan’s big heart beat in approval 
of every innocent prank, and even the cold, indifferent 
Susan of other days unconsciously lifted the slight 
burdens off the frail shoulders of the child of love. 
Both foster parents seemed to understand. They de¬ 
termined to further educate Glad Ray but it seemed a 
sacrilege to tear the child from the canvas with the 
forest setting. 

“Pm so happy, Uncle Jack,” Glad would exclaim. 
”1 love the woods, the flowers, the birds, but best of 
all I like it here in your big arms.” And Uncle Jack 
would ruffle the towsled curls in his protecting way. 

With the coming of Summer, Glad’s happiness knew 
no bounds. Tourists noticed the striking unselfishness 


244 


GLAD RAY 


245 


of the child. She always seemed to anticipate the 
needs of a guest or the slightest desire of Uncle Jack 
or Aunt Susan. When Jack had lost his knife it was 
Glad who found it; when he wanted his pipe Glad was 
filling it; when he started for a walk Glad handed him 
his hat; when there were holes in his stockings, Glad 
carried them to Aunt Susan. It was Glad who al¬ 
ways brought Susan’s glasses; it was Glad who always 
saved her a hundred steps; it was Glad who was al¬ 
ways doing things, in the kitchen, in the guest 
rooms; everywhere was this child of love,—she 
of the wondrous eyes and perpetual smile. With 
skeins of steel she wound her web around the 
hearts of old Susan and Jack. The child radiated pur¬ 
est love and was impartial in her service. Her keen 
intuition, even her judgment was a barometer for Jack 
Sullivan,—an index to the character of his customers. 
He was extremely careful of the man for whom Glad 
did not display her usual consideration. 

Occasionally Glad mentioned her school days in Du¬ 
luth and frequently inquired about the Anstrum fam¬ 
ily. On his return from one of his regular weekly 
trips Uncle Jack’s face was wreathed in smiles. He 
had a secret for Glad. She was invited to the birthday 
party. Yes, it was true. Selma Anstrum had told old 
Sullivan to bring Glad to Duluth with him on the fol¬ 
lowing Friday so she could stay all night and attend 
the children’s party Saturday afternoon. Selma had not 
told her mother about inviting Glad. No one was more 
surprised than Mrs. Anstrum when the child greeted 
her at the kitchen door, but tact kept her from showing 


246 


GLAD RAY 


her displeasure. As soon as her Uncle Jack had bade 
Glad Ray goodbye and assured her that he “would 
drive down special-like fer you on Sunday,’’ he jumped 
into his delivery buggy and was gone. 

“I have the cutest little lace cap for you to wear 
when you wait on the other children at the party, and 
a tiny serving apron which will exactly suit you. 
Seems to me, my little maid has grown taller since her 
recent illness.” Mrs. Anstrum pretended to be busy 
with some important duty. 

Glad Ray was completely taken by surprise. Her 
heart pounded with despair. 

“You mean—you mean—I am not one of the party 
—but—just a little maid? Is that what you mean?” 
she asked anxiously. 

Mrs. Anstrum nodded. 

“Oh, I see.—I’m only the maid fer Selma’s party.” 

“You are, if you don’t spoil everything by crying 
about it.” 

Glad Ray stopped her tears, as she meekly tried on 
the maid’s outfit. 

“You may set the kettle on the stove for tea,” she 
said, “and we will have some bakery buns and jelly 
which is about all I planned for tonight. 

“Yes, ma’am, I will,” and Glad methodically started 
her duties, dismissing all dreams about sharing in any 
pleasures of the party. During the meal Glad was re¬ 
hearsed in the art of serving the children imaginary 
trays of cakes, refilling their soft-drink glasses and 
passing nappies of candies and shelled nuts. The An¬ 
strum flock enjoyed the schooling immensely—all ex- 


GLAD RAY 


247 


cept Selma and Orsen, who resented their little friend 
acting in the capacity of a maid in uniform. 

“Aw, ma, can’t Glad Ray sit at the table tomorrow?” 
interrupted Orsen as the training progressed. 

“My children are born of fine stock, and Glad Ray 
is our little maid, and I am quite certain by this time 
she knows her place thoroughly,” snapped the haughty 
mother. 

“What kind of stock is Glad Ray made of that we 
aint?” demanded Inga. Glad Ray had left the room. 

“She sprung from nothing as far as the Sullivans 
can find out. A foundling is a foundling and a no¬ 
body.” 

“Pop was a nobody then, for he was a foundling,” 
exclaimed Inga. 

“Your father’s people,” Mrs. Anstrum lied, “were 
fine folk in the old country,—some of them land own¬ 
ers and several ministers. As for my folk,—they 
were very rich, but lost their money through a bunch 
of nobodys’ from other folk’s families.” 

“What did your folks go with nobodys’ for, when 
your folks thought they were so much?” enquired Or¬ 
sen impudently. 

“That will do; and if you utter another word of 
back talk, I’ll not permit you to sit at the table tomor¬ 
row.” 

Orsen thought that would be a great idea, but later 
recalled his sister Selma’s chum, Grace Baker,—and 
he wanted to sit next to Grace. 

As the preparations for the party went merrily on, 
Glad forgot the cruelty of Mrs. Anstrum and decided 


248 


GLAD RAY 


to make the best of an unhappy situation. Then came 
a wire from her friend, Mr. Anstrum, congratulating 
Selma on her thirteenth birthday, but expressing regret 
that he could not get home. Poor Glad had been hop¬ 
ing Mr. Anstrum would order his wife to see that she 
was treated like the other guests. This was the death 
sentence for Glad's hopes. For an instant both smiles 
and tears struggled for mastery, and the smiles won. 

The guests began to arrive. Attired in a simple 
black sateen dress partly covered by a white apron, a 
little lace bow cap perched on the top of her golden 
hair which was stiffly and unbecomingly dressed, Glad 
sat in the kitchen peering through the half open door. 
She saw Mrs. Anstrum, like a clucking hen, trying to 
mother the brood. Her former school chums were 
there and she wondered whether they would speak to 
her. Inga was ordered to the piano. The grand march 
began. To Glad this was paradise and her heart 
thumped in accord with every movement. Around the 
table the children circled, searching for their names on 
the place cards. Glad’s part in the festivities were to 
begin when, in all the splendor of her maidship she was 
to light the birthday cake. The servant in the house 
caught her cue from Mrs. Anstrum and marching to 
her post of duty she leaned over Orsen, close to Selma 
and touched the lighted taper to each candle. After 
this ceremony she noiselessly departed, but not before 
Orsen had slipped a hurriedly written note into her 
right hand, which fortunately escaped Mrs. Anstrum’s 
green-gray eyes. As soon as Glad Ray reached the 
kitchen she read it: 


GLAD RAY 


249 


^ “I like you next to Grace Baker. You are prettier than 
Grace. Do you like me? I am sorry that ma is so funny, 
but most mas are I guess. Maybe you’re lucky that you 
have no ma. [f you like me, touch my hand when you 
come close to me next time. Will you please? 

Orsen.” 

Glad smuggled the note into her stocking, accepted 
the huge tray which the colored cook handed her and 
re-entered the dining room. As she began to serve the 
“somebody s’' at the farthest end of the table, Glad Ray 
did not reach Orsen for several minutes. Every blue 
blooded lad and lassie appeared to have a regular, 
healthy, mongrel appetite. Glad Ray hesitated beside 
Selma and Orsen, and courage seemed to fail her. 
With a desire to smile at Orsen, her humiliation kept 
her eyes from meeting his. The other children had 
not recognized Glad Ray. She imagined this was 
proper when “somebodys” came in contact with “no- 
bodys." When the candles were blown out, and the ice¬ 
cream served, several layer cakes were yet to be passed. 
Orsen had helped himself to the motto candy hearts 
and handed one to Grace Baker, reading: “I think 
you’re sweet.” He then found one burning with the 
secret of his impetuous emotions: “I want to kiss you, 
for I love you.” By the time Glad Ray reached Or¬ 
sen, he found a way to slip the candy heart into the 
little maid’s right hand. For an instant she colored a 
rosy hue, but the thought of being a “nobody” was too 
serious a matter for such a token as a candy heart to 
blot out mortification so quickly. When Glad reached 
the kitchen she ventured to read the inscription. Care¬ 
fully she folded Orsen’s note around the candy motto 


250 


GLAD RAY 


and replaced both in her stocking. Finally the guests 
departed. Glad Ray was busily washing the dishes 
when Orsen entered. 

“Gee, Glad, I’m sorry you mised the party. We had, 
—no, I mean, they had a bully time; but all the while I 
wanted you. Did you read my note and the candy 
heart ?” 

“Yes, but I’m busy, Orsen.” This, with her head 
bent low over her soapy dishwater to avoid letting her 
first beau perceive the scalding tears of mingled re¬ 
gret and shame. 

“I think you’re a ‘somebody’ and ma’s a ‘nobody’; so 
there!” 

“Thank you. Your mother is a good mother, and I 
like her too.” 

“Shure, you’d like anyone who needed to have some¬ 
body stick up for ’em. Will you kiss me?” he coaxed 
bluntly. 

“Maybe not—now.” 

“Oh, gee! Yes, NOW. We’ll never get a better 
chance; and I love you, Glad.” 

“You think I am a ‘somebody’?” 

“I think you are the best girl I ever knew. I gave 
Grace Baker a candy motto with only: “I think you’re 
sweet” on it, but I gave you the REAL one, and I 
MEAN it too. Now will you kiss me?” 

“Please wait until I take down my curls, my head 
hurts,” the vain little miss protested. 

“I’ll help you, sweetie.” 

Glad and Orsen began picking the hairpins out of 
the bow-cap and golden curls. Soon a flood of beau- 


GLAD RAY 


251 


tiful ringlets fell about Glad’s shoulders and she looked 
like her own fascinating self once more. 

‘'There,—your curls are down now; will you?” 

Glad hesitatingly nodded consent, and offered her 
lips to her first boy friend. 

“Urn! That was lovely, sweetie. When I’m a man 
I sure will marry you,—see if I don’t.” 

Both children giggled innocently, and Orsen was 
about to dry the clean pile of scalded dishes for his 
little sweetheart, when Mrs. Anstrum entered. 

“March to the front room, and never let me see an 
Anstrum in this kitchen when I have servants in it.” 
Orsen departed, but not before he touched Glad’s 
trembling hand as he laid the dishtowel over the pink 
fingers as though by accident. “That reminds me, 
Glad, I’ll pay you today.” Mrs. Anstrum thrust fifty 
cents into Glad Ray’s wet palm. 

“What is this for, Aunt Nettie?” 

“Wages for your services. Another thing, my name 
is Mrs. Anstrum.” 

“Oh,—yes, I won’t forget to call you that agin. 
And,—well,—well—I’ve never spoken up before, and I 
hope you won’t consider me much worser’n a ‘nobody’, 
but if you want me to be paid like maids are paid, why 
—why—I don’t think fifty cents is enough. If my ser- 
vin,’ wearin’ that horrid old lace cap, havin’ my hair 
twisted up so stiff like a chimney, and washin’ an’ dry- 
in’ all the dishes, cleanin’ the floors an’ ever’thin’ is 
worth anythin’ at tall, it ez worth what my Aunt Susan 
pays when she hez to hire a ‘somebody’ to help her with 
the kitchen wurk durin’ busy season.” 


252 


GLAD RAY 


“Yon spiteful, impudent child! I’ll donate what you 
insist on receiving, but I paid what I think you are 
worth for the two days.” 

“Well,—you kin donate me a dollar a day fer the 
two days, an’ I’ll never come here agin. I think it’s 
kinda wicked fer you to—” 

Glad was not permitted to finish. Mrs. Anstrum’s 
green-gray eyes forbid. The child accepted the two 
dollars, and considered that in being told she was a 
‘nobody’ and doing a servant’s labors she had, indeed, 
earned it. So did her Uncle Jack, when told the en¬ 
tire story including the secret declarations of Orsen. 

“The ol’ skin-flint! Fer thet yer Uncle Jack’ll niver 
deliver iny more eggs tuh her,—see” ? Susan Sullivan 
exclaimed. Susan particularly resented the least so¬ 
cial neglect shown her adopted niece. 

Having determined to spare Glad Ray further em- 
barassment in Duluth, Jack and .Susan decided she 
should attend the “deestrict schule” and then go to the 
city to graduate from High. The years that followed 
were filled with interest,—the happiest in the life of 
the ageing couple. 

At the Pike Lake, district school, where boys 
and girls came from a radius of four miles, Glad was 
idolized from the very day she arrived astride her 
sorel charger, “Old Sal.” This mare had been a fam¬ 
ous pacer in her day, but now one eye was gone, the 
tail was little more than a stub, the mane shaggly and 
worn, the off front leg spavined. However, “Old Sal’s 
ambition for speed had never died and at times she 
paced a quarter like a four year old. 


GLAD RAY 


253 


The day before Glad started to day school the cart 
wheel was broken and she had to ride astride the old 
nag. It proved to be a wonderful adventure. As 
she neared the schoolhouse she noticed the road 
side was lined with boys and girls of all ages, swinging 
their books and playing pranks. All hailed her as 
“Old Sal” strode by, stepping high and unusually am- 
bitious. The omnipresent bad boy tossed a stone into 
the horse’s ribs, and the space ahead, to the one-eyed 
vision of Old Sal, was a race course again. Away she 
sped with Glad bouncing, children shouting,—down 
the final stretch toward the finish line. Directly in 
front of the “reviewing stand” “Sal” stopped short. 
Over her head went Glad, deposited safely at the very 
school house gate. All the early arrivals, lead by the 
teacher, rushed to the aid of the child. When Nellie 
Minter, the teacher, picked Glad up, the child opened 
her eyes wide and smiled her gratitude. The anxious 
boys and girls were assured Glad was unhurt. There 
was not a tear, not even a whimper. Glad was no 
“cry baby” and that meant everything at the district 
school. 

During the weeks that followed Glad Ray became 
the talk of the country for miles around. Children 
were always telling their parents about little feats of 
daring on the back of her wonderful mare; of unusual 
acts of kindness to little ones in distress; of tears she 
wiped away; of fights she stopped; of marks she 
made;—and never was there a word breathed about 
her parentage. Under Miss Minter’s instructions both 
boys and girls were rated strictly on merit. 


254 


GLAD RAY 


Miss Minter, a graduate of an eastern college, 
always remained the fast friend of Glad Ray. The 
teacher had decided to devote her life to real work in 
her own neighborhood and is still recalled at Pike Lake 
as a woman of loyalty and devotion to her home people 
whose blessing she won by years of faithful service to 
the cause of education. It was Miss Minter who taught 
Glad the little graces of young womanhood, who in¬ 
structed her in all the realities of life, who gave of 
her love to the child, as Glad gave to everyone. Dur¬ 
ing vacation periods Glad visited her teacher; and the 
happiest moments in the lives of her foster parents 
were the times when Miss Minter would predict a 
wonderful future for their adopted niece. So the 
years rolled by. 

Then came the next great event in the career of 
Glad. She entered high school at Duluth. About a 
week after she had registered as a freshman she met 
Selma Anstrum, the chum of Jessie Highland, only 
daughter of the widow Highland with whom Glad 
Ray had obtained room and board in even exchange 
for Pike Lake farm products. Selma, now sixteen and 
thoroughly imbued with her mother’s ideas, chilled 
Glad’s frank greeting. She ignored the girl’s prof¬ 
fered hand and looked down on her with such a super- 
cillious air that Glad Ray felt much like a young can¬ 
ary must feel who faces a huge house cat for the first 
time. 

“Hello, Selma, dear! How you have grown! You 
look lovely,” and Glad offered to kiss her. 

Selma turned her cheek. “Thank you, she re- 


GLAD RAY 


255 


sponded coldly. “You are taller, too. I hear you are 
living with the widow, Mrs. Emma Highland, and my 
chum, Jessie.” 

“Yes. Mrs. Highland is a lovely woman and Jessie 
is very charming.” By this time Glad had quite re¬ 
covered and frigidly drew away. 

“You are not her maid, then?” 

“No,—I have never really been anyone’s maid, 
Selma.” 

“What are you lying for? You were my mother’s 
maid, and I can prove it.” Selma was in a rage of 
jealousy. 

“I thought Selma, by this time you would under¬ 
stand your mother could not afford a maid, and not 
much more than afford to pay Uncle Jack for his farm 
supplies. She compelled me to act as her little maid 
unknown to my guardians, after she had asked them 
to have me come and share your home. I was to wash 
and wipe the dishes while you girls were supposed to 
do the other work.” 

“Well, you were a maid anyway, and I am going to 
tell Mrs. Highland. You are not fit to live with 
Jessie.” 

“If that is how you value our former friendship, 
rush right over now,” and Glad Ray left Selma stand¬ 
ing in blank amazement, chin tilted to a ridiculous 
angle. Glad suddenly realized a word in defense of 
maids might not be amiss, so she retraced her steps 
just far enough to be heard distinctly by Selma and 
Jessie, the latter having joined her chum. “I’d rather 
be a kind, worthy maid than a snobby want-to-be 


256 


GLAD RAY 


‘somebody’ like yon. Some day you will see yourself 
as others see you, and then I’d truly like to renew our 
acquaintance.” Seeing Jessie, she concluded: “Good 
Morning, Jessie,” to which the latter responded in a 
dazed manner not knowing what Glad Ray’s sudden 
outburst was about. Fortunately, Selma and Jessie 
were in the Junior Class and did not come in close con¬ 
tact with Glad Ray. Later, Glad began to notice an 
unfavorable change in the attitude of several Fresh¬ 
man girls. 


CHAPTER XVIII 


D URING the first freshman examinations Glad 
Ray won the recognition of the entire class 
when she stepped gingerly over the heads of the city 
girls and boys into first rank. Coming from the 
country schools, teachers and principles were greatly 
surprised when this slip of a girl demonstrated the 
thoroughness of Minnesota rural grade training. The 
high marks of the country girl became the topic of 
general discussion in high school circles. Wise educa¬ 
tors, city bred and city trained, maintained the show¬ 
ing was due entirely to the aptitude of Miss Ray. 
Teachers who had graduated from country schools 
declared with equal emphasis that her high standard 
was an evidence of a better educational system. So 
the discussion raged and Glad Ray unconsciously be¬ 
came an individual of unusual interest. 

One of the characteristics of Glad, even in her youth, 
was her keen analytical method of handling every 
problem. Her’s was excellent logic in addition to 
beauty and intelligence which won almost instant re¬ 
cognition. Praise meant little to Glad Ray, but she 
did feel a sense of gratitude in the realization that 
Uncle Jack and Aunt Susan would glory in her achieve¬ 
ments. She had not mentioned the high marks in her 
letters home, but when her teacher announced that 
Glady Ray had been selected as one of the freshman 

257 


258 


GLAD RAY 


debating team of three, she wrote the joyful news to 
Pike Lake. 

A growing jealousy on the part of certain classmates 
had not disturbed Glad. She was humming merrily 
one Thursday morning on her way to the Duluth 
Central High. The chill winds brought the roses 
to her cheeks and even the tip of her nose red¬ 
dened. As she swung into the hallway she greeted 
her class mates joyfully but noticed here and there a 
look of haughty disdain. A few of the girls did not 
speak and one boy she liked quite well completely 
ignored her. Puzzled and deeply chagrined she at¬ 
tributed the chill to some malicious report that had been 
spread the afternoon before. How it hurt. All the 
joy of scholastic victory died in the sorrow of the cold¬ 
ness shown by her classmates. Perhaps, she thought, 
parents had been using her for an example and before 
she would cause anyone pain she would let others have 
the honors at the end of the term. 

When Glad was called into the private office of 
Principal John Ryan, instead of being frightened, she 
felt a keen sense of relief. At least she would know 
the terrible truth. That distinguished educator seemed 
very grave as he looked at her over his glasses. 

“What is this I hear, Miss Ray,” he asked, “about 
Glad Ray being a fictitious name. What is your right 
name ?” 

“Why,—why,—I don’t quite understand.” Glad 
Ray’s knees began to tremble and her throat became 
dry. 

“Exactly what I say. There are rumors about High 


GLAD RAY 


259 


School, especially in your Freshman class, that your 
name is not Ray, and that you are here for no good 
purpose.” 

“My name is Glad Ray, sir.” 

“Who are your parents?” 

“I have neither father nor mother,” and she choked 
back her tears with difficulty. 

“Who are your guardians?” 

“Mr. Jack Sullivan and his wife, Susan, my dearest 
friends,” she managed to answer. 

“What is their address, please,” and he began to 
make notes of what she was saying. 

“Pike Lake Tavern,—Pike Lake, Minnesota.” 

“You mean the Pike Lake roadhouse?” he asked so 
sharpely that it even startled the stenogapher. 

“I’ve never heard our Tavern called a roadhouse, 
Sir. I don’t know what you mean.” 

“With whom do you reside here in the city?” 

“With Mrs. Highland, sir.” 

“I don’t recall her. Do you know anyone else in 
Duluth whom I could use as a reference? You seem 
a nice girl to me and fit to take part in our schoc 4 
events.” 

He looked quizzically at Glad Ray, whose heart was 
thumping so hard the poor child thought certainly the 
Principal must hear it also. 

“I don’t know anyone else,—but—but—when I was 
a little girl about seven or eight years old I lived with 
a Mrs. Axel Anstrum, sir.” 

“Oh, did you? Well, I know the Anstrums very 


260 


GLAD RAY 


well; fine folk. This will do now; I’ll see Mr. or 
Mrs. Anstrum about your references. 

“Please—please—see Mr. Anstrum, because both his 
wife and daughters have no use for me or—well—I’m 
a 'nobody’ to them.” With this last remark Glad burst 
into tears. 

The Principal was touched. “Now, now, don’t 
worry. Pm quite certain this little rumor is idle non¬ 
sense. You are a nice girl; so run along to your 
classes.” 

Glad Ray “ran along,” but not to her classes. She 
went immediately to her dressing room, put on her 
heavy cloak and fur cap, leaving at once for the High¬ 
land home. As she entered Mrs. Highland was reading 
in the front bay window and saw the usually smiling 
face now flushed and serious, with eyes red from weep¬ 
ing. 

“What is the trouble, Glad Ray?’’ she inquired as 
Glad softly closed the outer door. 

“Oh,—I can’t—stand it,” and a fresh flood of girl¬ 
hood grief manifested itself. 

“Come in here, my dear, as soon as you remove 
your wraps and tell me all about it.” This was said 
in such a kind, motherly tone that Glad at once felt 
Mrs. Highland would make a comforting soul to whom 
she could pour forth her troubles. Qlad related the 
two happenings in detail,—that of meeting Selma early 
in September and her insulting remarks, and of the 
newer story regarding the roadhouse and her name. 

“Well, dear, anyone to look at you, and to live with 
you as I have since September, would know what a 



GLAD RAY 


261 


lovable girl you are. I think it is my duty to go and 
visit the Principal this very afternoon, myself.” 

“Oh, thank you! Will you truly?” Glad touched 
the older woman’s hand in grateful appreciation. 

“Yes, dear,—before Mrs. Anstrum starts to give a 
poor impression of your station in life.” 

“You will be wonderful if you only will. I haven’t 
anybody, you know. If faithful Aunt Susan came in, 
she’d shake her fist in the Principal’s face and say such 
cutting things. It would only convince him that he 
would not want Aunt Susan about very frequently, and 
incidentally Mr. Ryan might dismiss me. If I sent 
dear, old, Uncle Jack, he’d speak so crudely that the 
Principal would think I most certainly must be a ‘no¬ 
body’, as Mrs. Anstrum loved to make me feel. Uncle 
lack is so good and loyal that he’d suffer dreadfully 
just to know I suffered.” 

“That’s all right, little girl, I’ll go over to the High 
School this afternoon.” 

Mrs. Highland kept her word, and bumped into Mrs. 
Anstrum, who had responded quickly to a telephone 
call from the Principal. She was sitting in a whisper¬ 
ing, private conference with him, as the widow entered. 

“Yes, and if a child of that class heads a public 
debate,” argued Mrs. Anstrum, raising her voice, “my 
Inga cannot be on the team. Glad Ray comes from 
a bad-house in the first place, and in the second place 
somebody left her, or some woman had her, at this 
house and now the Sullivans are saddled with her, and 
are boarding her out to get rid of responsibility. The 


262 


GLAD RAY 


girl is easily led. My Inga cannot associate with girls 
of Glad Ray’s type.” 

“Well, well,—no reason for undue excitement, I am 
certain, Mrs. Anstrum. We will look further into this 
matter before any definite steps are taken, and in the 
meantime since you are so well informed, I hope you 
will be considerate enough not to mention this matter. 
Certainly, I thank you.” Mrs. Anstrum had risen to 
take her departure. 

“Oh, how do you do, Mrs. Highland.” exclaimed 
Mrs. Anstrum. 

A haughty, blank stare was the responsive greeting 
the guilty gossip received as Glad Ray’s defender 
walked rapidly to Mr. Ryan’s desk. 

“My name is Mrs. Emma Highland, widow of Em¬ 
erson Highland, late President of the Interstate Rail¬ 
way. I have come here in defense of a pure, lovable 
girl, Glad Ray,—the little foundling now living with 
me. Unfortunately it is my painful duty to refute 
every word of this malicious creature, Mrs. Axel Ans¬ 
trum, whom I unwittingly heard speak. She has told 
you jealous and vicious lies.” 

Dumfounded, Mrs. Anstrum had remained standing 
in the doorway, staring at Mrs. Highland until the 
latter had finished her stratling denunciation. When 
she heard the fearless and truthful opening remarks, 
Mrs. Anstrum tiptoed away, hastening to the protection 
of her own roof. 

“Please be seated,” Prof. Ryan indicated the chair 
just vacated by Mrs. Anstrum. “I hope my zeal to 


GLAD RAY 


263 


silence unwarranted gossip has not stirred up a hor¬ 
net’s nest.” 

After an hour of earnest consultation, Principal 
Ryan decided Mrs. Anstrum was the originator of the 
unpleasant rumor. 

“Glad Ray flatly refuses to take part in the debate.” 
he concluded. “I hope you can persuade her to re¬ 
call her decision.” 

Mrs. Highland readily consented to try, and after 
a few moments further conversation made her digni¬ 
fied adieus. She rushed back home to Glad Ray who 
had thrown herself on the bed and was sobbing 
bitterly. 

“It’s all right, dear,” Mrs. Highland explained. 
“Mr. Rvan understands conditions and the ugly gos¬ 
sip will cease.” She received a weak promise from 
Glad Ray to go on the team. Two days later Glad 
Ray visited the Principal’s office. 

“Whatever you think best, Glad Ray; but if I were 
you, I would win that debate and forever silence the 
idle, waggling tongues of jealous scandal mongers,” 
Prof. Ryan urged. That was good logic for older 
heads, but for sensitive Glad Ray, it only meant more 
gossip. 

“No, sir, if you please,” she begged. “I must be 
excused. I will do my best to finish school this 
year, but I can assure you, I’m much happier out at the 
Tavern with its loyal, though ignorant, owners whose 
guardianship is at least the one faithful star in my sky.” 

“Just as you say, Glad,” and he shook hands cordially 
as he bade her goodbye. 


264 


GLAD RAY 


On Valentine night the Freshmen planned a little 
party. Glad Ray had not served on any committees 
but she hoped some one of the boys would ask her to 
attend. Days passed and no invitation came. Two 
nights before the party Orsen Anstrum paid his first 
social call. She received him pleasantly, but not ef¬ 
fusively. His mother had forbidden the children to 
have anything to do with her former “maid,” and 
Orsen had complied with his mother’s jealous, unjust- 
request. But he could not remain away a moment 
longer. 

“Why,—I thought your mother—would not let—” 

“Yes, Glad, but you know how ’tis—a fellow can 
stand just so much of having both hands and feet 
needlessly tied, and I’ve simply up and bolted.” 

“I appreciate your sacrifice, Orsen,—coming to call 
on me, but you must not come again. She IS your 
mother, you know.” 

“Sure, I know it; I’m no more to blame for being 
her boy, than you are for not having any parents. 
Have you forgotten the note and—and—the kiss?” he 
added in a half-whisper. 

“I have tried to,—but, oh, well, you are so much 
like a brother, that I feel I can be honest with you, 
can’t I Orsen?” 

“Sure,—but—but you care for me?” 

“I have always cared for you because you tried to 
protect me and stood up for me, but I thought of the 
protection like a sister might,” she responded frankly. 

Orsen’s expression changed to one of disappoint¬ 
ment. 


GLAD RAY 


265 


"Then you won’t go to the Valentine party with me? 
I bought two tickets, and Harry Lloyd, another senior 
in my Scientific Course, bought a couple too, and he 
is going to take his girl, who is a freshman in your 
class. Thought we could call it a party of four.” 

"That would be just lovely. Yes, of course I’ll go, 
Orsen, if you don’t think somebody will look down on 
you for taking me,” she consented with much concern. 

"Oh, hang it, if they do. They can’t hurt me. Just 
let ’em say anything about you that I can hear, and 
the entire senior class,—at least those of my Fraternity, 
will wipe up the floor with ’em!” 

"Let’s not have war, Orsen,—now promise me not 
to make any scenes. If anyone says anything, and 
we hear it, will you take me directly home?” 

"Yes, I’ll promise anything, if you’ll only go,—you 
dance beautifully, and there isn’t a girl in the entire 
Central High who can stand a show with you. That’s 
what ails ’em,—dang ’em,—they are jealous of your 
standings, your beautiful hair and—and—oh, kiss me 
once more, like you did that day after Selma's party— 
will you please?” 

"No, Orsen, not today. I am older now, and don’t 
melt quite so easily, but—but—I do appreciate your 
asking me.” 

"What,—appreciate me asking you to the dance or 
for a kiss ?” he asked roguishly. 

"Both,” she whispered, blushing prettily. 

"So you positively will go to the party with me.” 

"Yes, since you promise to take me directly home 
in case anything unpleasant happens.” 


266 


GLAD RAY 


“I think it’s safe to promise that, but I’ll never 
promise not to go right straight back and smash the 
face of the trouble-maker. I’ll be here for you at five 
minutes to eight, sharp.” 

“Thank you, Orsen, I will be ready.” 

Orsen Anstrum, with Harry Lloyd and Martha 
Adams, called for Glad Ray promptly at five minutes 
before eight on Valentine’s night, and all four hurried 
along toward the Central High School where the first 
big party of the year was being held. 

“What is the money, made tonight, going to be 
used for, Glad?” inquired Orsen. 

“For Historical Statuary and Paintings I believe.” 

“Wish they had a dozen schools to decorate. Ain’t 
this the gay old night?” 

“It is wonderful. I can hear the High School Or¬ 
chestra way out here, and we are just opposite the 
front entrance. Some of the windows are down from 
the top.” 

“Let’s hurry I’m bursting for a dance with you,” 
and Orsen squeezed the little mittened hand as they 
climbed the terraced stone steps. Out on the floor 
they hurried. 

“This is the life. You certainly beat all the girls 
dancing. Let me see your program while I have a 
chance,” Orsen coaxed. 

Reluctantly Glad handed Orsen her dancing pro¬ 
gram. There were no names on it, and her escort 
noticed this immediately. 

“May I bring some of the fellows to dance with 
you, Glad?” 


GLAD RAY 


267 


“Please don’t bring - them ; let them come to me with¬ 
out urging, or not at all.” 

“Just as you say, but I'm going to put myself down 
for every other dance and “Home Sweet Home,” of 
course. Is that too many?” Orsen commenced to 
write his full name for ten dances. 

“You may have them. Orsen, you certainly are 
kind to me,” she whispered. 

“Tosh, on such stuff. You’re the finest girl I 
know; one girl in a hundred; and I want ’em all to 
find it out.” 

Harry Lloyd, a rather poor dancer, but quite a 
brilliant student and athletic in appearance, marked his 
name down for two dances. Three of Orsen’s fra¬ 
ternity brothers managed to get introduced to Glad 
Ray, and each one later brought a friend, so eight more 
dances were taken and no vacancies left. Glad Ray, 
very grateful her dance program was filled, entered 
into the spirit of the evening with apparent enthusiasm. 
Way down in her heart, she rather suspected that 
Orsen might have had a hand in her sudden popu¬ 
larity, but none of her partners by look or word gave 
any such evidence. Glad looked so charming in her 
only silk party frock. Her hair hung in soft, pale, 
golden curls far down over her shapely shoulders. Just 
a bit of her velvety throat was visible at the neck of 
her dress. Her shapely arms, from their dimpled el¬ 
bows to her finger tips, were bare. 

The girls of her class nodded stiffly to Glad Ray, 
and most of the boys spoke tolerantly, but it was 
plainly apparent that the Freshmen had their in- 


268 


GLAD RAY 


structions. Not one of the Freshmen boys asked Glad 
Ray to dance. Her partners were all visiting Junior 
or Senior boys, and most of them fraternity brothers of 
Orsen’s. She was having such a good time, that this 
did not bother her until the tenth dance which she 
was just finishing with Grant Nichols, a stalwart, 
fine, manly looking chap. He and his class mates had 
come to the conclusion that jealousy had started the 
small talk. Behind a large group of ferns and palms, 
at one end of the long hall, sat an unseen but distinctly 
heard couple. 

“I can’t, for the life of me, see what the girl 
came for. I wouldn’t want to come where I wasn’t 
wanted, especially when I had been left off every com¬ 
mittee. We have frozen her stiff, and yet she hangs 
on. You can see it’s only the boys of the older classes 
who dance with her.” 

“She can’t compare with you, Inga, and you should 
worry.” 

“Yes, I know, but I do hate to have to dance on the 
same floor with her type. It is awful to see my brother 
dancing with her.” 

Glad Ray was scarlet with humiliation, and she 
looked up into Grant Nichol’s face with tears flooding 
her big brown eyes. Grant could stand it no longer. 

“Please take me to a seat,” pleaded Glad. We 
don’t want to dance the encore.” 

“Not the encore; but I’m going to make somebody 
else dance.” With this, he suddenly held up two 


GLAD RAY 


269 


fingers and moved his arm in a wild, signal fashion 
to Orsen Anstrum who immediately left his partner 
standing dumb with surprise in the center of the hall. 
To Orsen, an emergency, fraternity signal meant im¬ 
mediate action. 

“There is some insulting female roasting Glad Ray, 
and some yellow pup with this female giving a willing, 
ready ear. I heard it, and you both follow me slowly, 
for I am going behind the palms and step on those 
two snakes.” 

“Please—please—you promised me,—Orsen, please,” 
Glad Ray pleaded frantically. Grant Nichols ignored 
Glad Ray’s pathetic appeal, and Orsen took her by the 
arm and slowly followed Grant behind the palms, all 
three astounded at seeing Inga Anstrum in the arms 
of the slimiest cad in school. 

“You female Judas, if you were a boy I’d choke you 
so you’d lose your tongue,” cried Grant, quite for¬ 
getting Inga was Orsen’s younger sister. L. Carter 
Westbern, her Freshman partner, turned pale but re¬ 
mained speechless with his arm about Inga. 

“Yes,” broke in Orsen, when he had recovered from 
the first shock. “You, Inga, can’t find a REAL man 
for a beau, so you have to take the worst cad in 
school. Do you know that yellow kid hasn't brains 
enough to offer to fight,—he’s a rotter—he is. We 
know him. He’s a cheat at everything.” 

“Brother!” cried Inga. 

“Don’t ‘Brother’ me,—I am disgusted with you. To 
think that my sister would stab the finest girl in 
school because of jealousy, and follow it up with per- 


270 


GLAD RAY 


mitting a simp like Westbern to kiss her. Bah! Rot¬ 
ten!” and Orsen rubbed his sleeve over his mouth in 
further effort to humiliate Inga. 

“Please, I beg of you to take me home. If you 
don’t, I’ll go alone,” Glad insisted. 

“You stay and dance, Glad. Stick and show these 
boors we are proud of you,” urged Grant. 

“Please,—I appreciate it all so much,—but I am 
sick—please take me home,” she begged. 

“See, what you’ve done,” roared Orsen. “Spoiled 
Glad Ray’s fun, and mine too. I'll fix you, West¬ 
bern, for both kissing my sister and not being man 
enough to say a word in defense of your innocent 
classmate. You haven’t made a hit with the male 
end of the Anstrum family, limpy L. Carter Westbern.” 

“I don’t particularly-care for—for Glad Ray,” 

he stammered. “I want Inga.” 

“Oh, you sitter-on-the-fence! You shrimp! You 
yellow bum! Listen to him, Orsen, he hasen’t the 
courage to say he does not like Glad Ray, 'cause he 
knows he does, and every other fellow does, and he’s 
aware of that too. He wants to stand in with Inga 
and the other Freshmen. Some bird, you are West¬ 
bern! Some wheezy, yellow bird!” 

“Come here, sis,—get your coat and hat, you are 
going home. Do you hear me?” commanded Orsen, 
indignantly. 

“Please take Miss Ray home since she wants to go. 
I am satisfied right here,” defied Inga. 

“So your Willy-boy escort permits you to plead your 


GLAD RAY 


271 


own cause, does he ? Gee! He is some la-dee-dah, all 
right/’ 

"I don’t want a scene before the girls,” whimpered 
Westbern. “Let’s not have a fuss.” 

“Listen to the birdie sing,” laughed Grant taunt¬ 
ingly. “Tweet! Tweet! Pretty birdie, don’t lose 
your voice, or Inga won’t know you’re on earth. 
Pretty birdie!” Grant started to whistle a familiar 
strain from “Listen to the Mocking Bird.” 

The music for the eleventh dance had just started, 
Oirsen grabbed Glad Ray in ownership fashion and 
sailed out on the dance floor. Grant’s speech about 
“pretty birdie” had broken the ice, and Glad found 
courage to continue the remainder of the program. 
After dance number sixteen, which she had with Scott 
Eaton another Fraternity member, Glad discovered 
Inga sitting next to her. For an instant their eyes 
met, but in another moment Orsen was close by to 
claim Glad Ray’s last two dances. 

“Your ‘Pretty Birdie’ has flown, Sis,—you better 
get your things on and go home, for it’s a cinch I’m 
not going to take you after the mess you made 
tonight.” 

“We will both walk home with Inga, before you 
take me to Mrs. Highland’s, if you please,” requested 
Glad Ray, sweetly. 

“You forgiving angel!” and turning to his sister he 
added: “Note the sweet disposition this girl has,— 
you snob!” 

“Please wait here, Inga. Don’t mind Orsen. He is 
a bit angry. I feel all right now.” Glad Ray smiled. 


272 


GLAD RAY 


Inga did not reply, but she remained meekly waiting 
for her brother and his partner to finish their last two 
dances. When they returned, Glad took Inga’s arm, 
but instantly Orsen resented this saying: “Inga, you 
take Glad’s arm, and show these Freshmen, these 
snobby birdies, that you know a good and beautiful 
girl when you see one.” Inga meekly obeyed, and 
all three went to get their wraps. As they turned 
down the wide staircase to the second floor a noisy 
gathering of High School boys were bumping and 
pushing. It looked like trouble. 

“What’s that? Look,—a fight!” 

“Don’t leave us Orsen, I’m afraid,” cried Inga. 

“Shut up. You girls sit here,” and Orsen pointed to 
the highest step, while he went to the second floor 
landing to investigate. Grant Nichols saw him and 
cried out: 

“Need you, old man. Nine Freshies to our four 
Frat men, and we need five at least. Westbern’s 
dirty work.” 

Orsen needed no further invitation. He threw his 
coat to Inga, his collar, vest and tie to Glad Ray, gave 
a jerk to the belt of his trousers, and flew pell-mell into 
the fray. Legs, arms, grunts, kicks, bangs, slams, 
unintelligible language, the crashing of broken glass 
from transoms and doors, mussed up heads, torn shirts 
and trousers told the story. Every little while some 
Fraternity man would get in an extra hard wallop and 
sing out: “So much for the Frat boys,—eh, men?” or 
“Guess you won’t start anything more over a girl. Take 
that! And that! And that!” Every “that” repre- 


GLAD RAY 


273 


sented a well aimed blow. The cheers every now and 
then had echoed to the third floor where Principal 
Ryan, Professor Custer and one of the English 
teachers, Miss Ebeling, had played chaperons. All 
three reached the scene of the fight at the great finish. 
The five Frat men with bleeding faces, disheveled hair, 
torn clothes but beaming countenances, had just laid 
the ninth Freshman down like a broken tin soldier 
beside the other defeated eight. 

L. Carter Westbern it seems had confided to eight 
of his classmates his version of the censure to which 
he had been subjected by Grant and Orsen. The 
eight decided to avenge the insult. In the upper class 
men they found their superiors. Each Frat man 
picked out two Freshmen, while the ninth first-year 
man, a husky football player, tackled Orsen. While 
the battle lasted it fairly sizzled and excitement reigned 
at white heat. 

When the chaperons appeared, the Frat men had 
finished their labors and stood aside in whispering con¬ 
ference, waiting for the first-year men to pick up their 
disabled comrades. Poor Miss Ebeling almost fainted, 
but soon rallied and sent some girls for water and 
towels, at the same time looking over the disgruntled, 
bleeding faces of the nine Freshmen with the practiced 
eye of one who is accustomed to detecting guilt. Prin¬ 
cipal Ryan and Professor Custer faced the three 
Junior and two Senior Frat men, demanding an ex¬ 
planation. Grant Nichols and Orsen Anstrum fairly 
warred with each other to go back into school hitosry 


274 


GLAD RAY 


and tell the origin of the feud. The three chaperons 
listened attentively and with reserved judgment, gazing 
first at the battered men, then at each other, as Orsen 
concluded: 

“And you see, sir,—this school is against men kissing 
girls at our parties and that pup, Westbern, has about 
ruined the democratic morale of our splendid classes 
by encouraging the lying gossip concerning the sweet¬ 
est girl we’ve ever had in school.” 

In spite of the disabled Freshmen, Mr. Ryan was 
proud of the stand the five upper class men had taken, 
but the dignity of the Central High had to be main¬ 
tained, so he stated authoritively: 

“I am horrified that such a disgraceful fight should 
take place inside of our great Institution, but I heartily 
commend your attitude of protection and respect for 
the wishes of the parents of our girls. This is Fri¬ 
day night. I shall expel you now, at eleven-thirty 
P. M., for exactly fifty-seven and one-half hours and 
reinstate you at the painful end of that period.” None 
of the five Fraternity boys realized exactly when their 
punishment would end. Principal Ryan desired to 
impress them with his disapproval of fighting and his 
approval of their moral stand. The three chaperons 
held a short secret meeting and decided the result of 
the battle had been sufficient punishment for the fresh¬ 
men. After they had returned to the corridors and 
ordred the students to leave, they congratulated the 
upper class men, and Grant’s muddled brain finally 
discovered that the fifty-seven and one-half hours ex- 
pulsion would end on Monday morning at the exact 


GLAD RAY 


275 


hour to open school. The five men glanced up, 
sheepishly grinning at their chaperons, as they shook 
hands all around. Grant returned with Orsen and 
joined trembling Inga and Glad Ray,—the latter’s 
naturally rose-petal-pink complexion having assumed 
the color of chalk. 

“Oh, Orsen,—Grant,—you’re both all bloody,” ex¬ 
claimed Inga. 

‘'Bloody with glory, thank you. May I see you 
home, Inga? Your ‘Pretty Birdie’ can be seen but not 
heard at one of the local hospitals most any time to¬ 
morrow.” He whistled mischieviously. Both bops 
laughed. 

"Oh, boys, this is terrible,” but Glad Ray’s glisten¬ 
ing eyes some way belied her words. "Terrible,” she 
repeated. 

"Terribly nice for us that we could stop the gos¬ 
sip. And that reminds me, declared Orsen, "now I 
have this all out of my system, I’ll feel more like a 
brother to you, Inga. But hereafter sis, please show 
ma in what way she is wrong, by yourself being a 
real Anstrum democrat. Try to have the good old 
U. S. spirit, sis, and above everything don’t be a snob. 
•Kiss Glad Ray because you have discovered she’s a real 
girl and true; will you ?” 

Without hesitation Inga put her plump little arms 
about Glad’s shoulders, and softly kissed first Glad’s 
eyes so hot from tears, and then the pretty lips. 

"I am ashamed, dear Glad; this has been a dreadful 
lesson to me; and,” she tried to keep the tears back, 
"I want to be your friend, forever.” 


276 


GLAD RAY 


“Thank you, Inga dear. Please forgive my foolish 
tears,” she half sobbed, ‘Til be able—to stop—in a 
minute,” and as she gained somewhat better control, 
continued: “I have always known both you and Selma 
were dear, good girls in your hearts; and I love you 
both.” 

“Where do I come in, Glad ?” coaxed Orsen. 

“I am very proud of you, Orsen,” confided Glad 
Ray, “I shall never forget how brave you were to- 
tonight.” 

“Will you kiss me, Glad, when we get to Highlands ?” 
coaxed Orsen as he drew her arm within his. 

“Maybe,” whispered Glad. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


D URIN1G the turbulent days of her romance with 
Raymond Hallaway, the birth of Glad Ray, her 
marriage to the Judge and the latter’s death, Gladys 
Longworth Breckenridge had little time or inclination 
to reflect on the mysteries of creation or listen to the 
persistent voice of Conscience. Blind, her child lost, 
stolen or dead, the heart-broken mother considered the 
pitiful separation a merciless punishment for the vio¬ 
lation of the moral code. For more than a year pri¬ 
vate detectives searched every corner of the globe for 
a trace of the guardian and the precious child of love. 

Mrs. Allen was last seen by a cab driver who had 
driven a woman, holding a crying baby, toward the 
depot. She had paid her fare, hugged the child to her 
bosom and disappeared in the darkness. He thought 
she made her way to the depot, but said it was possible 
she entered another cab and took a train from an¬ 
other station. At neither station did the agent recall 
the purchase of a ticket by a woman of Mrs. Allen’s 
description. 

For many months the detectives shadowed Dr. Ray¬ 
mond Hallaway. It was learned he too was making a 
still hunt for the child and his former sweetheart, 
believing others knew more than they were telling. 

A number of futile efforts were made to blackmail 

277 


278 


GLAD RAY 


the helpless widow by the detectives in her employ. 
Once she paid a large sum for information which 
proved worthless. As a means of protection she hired 
two perfectly good eyes when Miss Madge Weeks be¬ 
came her social secretary. As her strength improved 
the patient left the wheel chair and, with the aid of 
Miss Weeks and a slender cane, frequently walked 
about the estate. 

From shrewd investments under the wise direction 
of Judge Dibbell, Gladys was able to treble her income 
and indulge in charity work, particularly in the hos¬ 
pitals for blind and cripple children. This occupation 
was her one pleasure. Very seldom she attended to 
the donations personally, more frequently she left it 
to Miss Weeks. At other times she had the matron, 
or head of the institution about to receive the dona¬ 
tion, call at “The Maples,” the old Breckenridge home¬ 
stead. “The Maples” was now, by the will of the late 
Judge, the legacy of Gladys. None of her later ac¬ 
quaintances knew Gladys by any name other than 
“Mrs. Breckenridge.” Checks were signed “Mrs. G. 
L. Breckenridge.” This had been Judge Dibbell’s ad¬ 
vice. To her girlhood friends Gladys was now un¬ 
known, and not associating the name of Longworth 
with her married one, persons who read of, or were 
interested in, charities which became public, never 
connected the two names. In one way this was un¬ 
bounded relief to the widow; in another she feared 
silence concerning the past might hamper Mrs. Allen 
in her search for the infant’s mother. 

As the years passed, hundreds of sufferers blessed 


GLAD RAY 


279 


the respected name of their blind benefactor. Each be¬ 
quest she granted, Gladys felt was one of love and 
atonement to make her more worthy the return of her 
daughter. Not for a moment did she give up hope. 
After seventeen years of humble and loving service, 
Gladys received from the general public of Louisville 
the name: “Angel of the Crippled and Blind.” As her 
income multiplied, her charities assumed the same wide 
range. Except garden and house parties for afflicted 
babies and the genuinely deserving poor, “The Maples” 
was never opened for a single social season. Society 
that type which only lives to consume time and occupy 
space had absolutely no attraction for Gladys Breck- 
enridge. The jingle, tinsel, sham and hypocrisy dis- 
guested the sensitive nature which feasted on doing 
things worth while, alleviating the sufferings of others, 
and using time to the glory of spiritual progression. 

Even in her blindness, men and women were not 
without the realization of the widow’s grace and 
beauty. Her hair was slightly touched with silver, 
making Gladys all the more attractive. The years 
stood lightly against her pink flesh, leaving it the deli¬ 
cate velvety tone of youth. Her figure, too, retained 
its good proportions, and although she dressed with 
marked simplicity, every gown was in excellent taste 
and appropriate to the place and hour. She wore no 
jewels other than the narrow wedding ring and the 
two carat solitaire engagement ring which the Judge 
had given her during their honeymoon in St. Louis. 

Believers in the theory of the Law of Compensation 
will find in Gladys a new proof. Pity for the blind 


280 


GLAD RAY 


woman, always gave way to an abiding love when new 
acquaintances discerned her wonderful Spiritual per¬ 
ception. When it appeared that locating her daughter 
might require years, the widow turned to the Bible 
for consolation. Miss Weeks was requested to read 
the first and second chapters of Genesis to her time 
and time again. 

“Please read to me, Verse 27, Chapter I,” Gladys 
would request, and Miss Weeks most graciously com¬ 
plied. 

“ ‘So God created man in His Own Image, in the 
Image of God created He him.’ ” 

“If God created man in His Own Image,” she would 
muse, “then man must have been infinitely perfect,— 
that is, not the mortal man we understand as flesh, but 
the Spiritual or Immortal man. I love to analyze that 
verse as all my earlier years were spent in ignorance 
of the dissimilarity between mortal and immortal. I 
could not comprehend the difference between ‘His 
Own Image’ as written in the Scriptures, and the mor¬ 
tal flesh, which I see with material sense. From my 
more mature understanding of that sacred verse much 
has been cleared for me. Inasmuch as I cannot see, 
touch or feel God, He must be Spiritual. Then if T 
am born in His Image, the immortal ‘I’ must also be 
spiritual.” 

“Well,” thoughtfully responded Miss Weeks,” the 
old quotation holds good: ‘As a man thinketh, so is 
he.’ ” 

“That is also true; and I want to think of my baby 
as Spiritual too, that there may be a Oneness with God, 


GLAD RAY 


281 


and some day I may win her mortal forgiveness for 
my own sin.” 

Patiently the widow and her secretary toiled, some¬ 
times far into the night, searching first in the old tes¬ 
tament, then in the new. The life and works of Jesus 
seemed to grip her, and yet the lonely, blind widow 
would say: 

“All mankind really wants to be good, and yet look 
what happened to the best Man who ever lived! I 
shudder when I think of the terrible material punish¬ 
ment a mother visits on her offspring born out of 
wedlock.” 

“Yes,—and there is the Law of Compensation, of ad¬ 
justment—atonement,” Miss Weeks analyzed from her 
personal viewpoint. 

“That is the pitiful part of mortal consciousness, 
where there is little comfort. The Spiritual growth I 
have been able to attain from the Bible has proven a 
reasonable panacea. Don’t you think it is possible 
for one to emerge gradually from limited material 
knowledge into unlimited Spiritual understanding? 
Isn’t it possible to overcome illusions or mistakes 
through knowledge of the Bible and it’s Truth?” 

“Yes,” the secretary responded. 

The lonely mother was only musing, and did not 
expect her questions to be answered. 

Having once perceived there is no selfishness or 
limitation in God, it was not difficult for Gladys 
Breckenridge to reason that there could be no loss in 
God. She also decided there could be no excuse, or 
reason, or truth, in denying the Eternal Perfection and 


282 


GLAD RAY 


Completeness of all things Good; and that nothing 
God creates can be anything else than Good; and 
therefore anything Good cannot be lost, whether it is 
one's material vision or one’s child. This, she decided, 
because God once Creating anything always Creates 
Perfectly and once and for all “IT IS GOODS Fin¬ 
ally, she soliloquized: All Creation endures and prog¬ 
resses throughout Eternity; that there is no limit to 
knowledge; nothing created ever dies; and that Life is 
Everlasting. Gladys gradually realized, although her 
daily lessons had been testing ones and of long stand¬ 
ing, that: “Joy cometh in the morning;” and finally, 
that the Natural Laws of Compensation are Absolute, 
Invariable, and Perfect. 

“Without social crucifixions, illusive sorrow and mortal 
pain, we frequently fail to perceive the Eternal Presence 
of God in Whose Love, limitations, selfishness, inconsid¬ 
erations or distortions of any kind cannot exist.” 

In after years Gladys came to the conclusion that 
Raymond Hallaway had needed sympathy and under¬ 
standing from his mate, and decidedly more tact be¬ 
cause of his anxiety over responsibilities, education, 
lack of funds, shabby clothes, and an irritable dispo¬ 
sition. She had failed to appreciate and analyze the 
cravings of his impulsive nature and realized her lack 
of diplomacy had ignited many a quarrel between them. 

She had passed thru numerous material changes 
since the days of her impulsive youth. But for her 
Spiritual research work, with the aid of Miss Weeks, 
Gladys would have given way to remorse. During 
the very early stages of her motherhood, idleness 


GLAD RAY 


283 


caused her imaginary troubles, suspicion and supersen¬ 
sitiveness. Following this came a period of stubborn¬ 
ness and retaliation: Then she married Judge Breck- 
enridge. A few months later the death of the Judge 
caused a crucial awakening. The news of her baby 
girl’s mysterious disappearance, added to the torture 
of anticipated blindness, was gradually followed by 
the realization, as she phrased it: “that all material 
conditions are as nothing; also, that God or Truth 
cannot be distorted or aborted. TRUTH IS; just as 
God Is; and the Wisdom of God is Infinite 

Prior to the year that the blinding cataracts were 
completely developed, Gladys had finally perceived the 
merciful Truth in the Immortality of Love. She 
understood once and for all, though Raymond had 
many material faults of the flesh, nevertheless, he pos¬ 
sessed the same Spiritual blessings to which she was 
heir; and to that IMMORTAL YOU, known to 
Gladys as Hallaway, was given her undying love. 

Certainly never before, and never since, had Gladys 
experienced the same absolute submissiveness, or the 
perfect oneness-in-love as visited her soul on the night 
she accepted her student-lover. She had respected, al¬ 
most revered, Judge Breckenridge; but the supreme 
mate-hood emotion she knew, too late, was given the 
father of her baby. Through impulse, faith, trust and 
love “Glad Ray” was born. 

How frequently the lonely blind woman soliloquized 
on a mother’s first-born. She believed most often the 
first child to be a manifestation of mutual love and 
truth; the mother’s absolute unity with the life of the 


284 


GLAD RAY 


father; their united oneness in mind, unselfishness, de¬ 
sire and devotion. At least, Gladys trusted this should 
be the only manner of conception under any circum¬ 
stances, whether it proved the first-born or the fifth. 

There can he no IDEALS too high for perfect con¬ 
ception. There must be ever borne in mind that Propa¬ 
gation is a part of Creation; and that Creation being 
of God, and God being Divine, therefore Propagation 
is Spiritual and a proof of Divine Wisdom. With this 
thought, conception becomes a Spiritual transition and 
a perfect manifestation of mutual love, truth and In¬ 
finite Creation. 

When Gladys married Judge Thomas Breckenridge 
she sincerely appreciated his generous protection, and 
honored him for his tenderness, proving herself worthy 
of his abiding trust. However, she made no pretense 
in relation to a passionate love she did not possess. 
The venerable jurist opened a respectable harbor for 
her child, and in youthful inconsistency Gladys felt 
that he was her last honorable opportunity and social 
refuge. 

Through mistaken desperation she forgot that men 
like Doctor Hallaway frequently become apparently 
indifferent, when in reality it is not so much a lessen¬ 
ing of affections as thoughtlessness in believing a 
woman should know once and for all that she is loved, 
not requiring the exertion of daily demonstration. 

When Miss Weeks was busy with correspondence 
Gladys would sit hour after hour with plenty of oppor¬ 
tunity for contemplation. Often, her mind would re- 


GLAD RAY 


285 


vert to Raymond, the student and interne, as she last 
saw him. His ardent wooing and assuring sentiments 
came back to her as clearly out of the past as though he 
had actually been by her side. Again Gladys listened 
to her lover’s voice, and gazed on his splendid pres¬ 
ence as distinctly as though she could truly see him 
with her sightless eyes, and live again those moments 
gone beyond recall. 

Thus the old memories were frequently revived as 
Gladys daydreamed, alone in her blindness, trying to 
fathom the secrets of the silence, the depths of the 
darkness, and recall the features of those most dear to 
her. 

Because Gladys Longworth Breckenridge had ex¬ 
perienced mortal bitterness to its fullest, she also dis¬ 
covered the kindest remedies and the perfect panacea. 

Because she had missed love in its most glorious 
form, then wifehood, and later been deprived of her 
motherhood, she realized the absolute necessity of 
Spiritual Truth for those in like misery. 

Often Gladys retraced life’s numerous steps and mis¬ 
steps and in doing so, recalled the crucial hour in which 
she revealed to Raymond the coming of the child. 

“Are you positive, darling?” he had asked. 

“Yes, Raymond, I am.” It was sublime to share 
with him her precious secret. 

“My wonderful, little wife! What a perfect woman- 
soul is yours! My dream-child shall live!” He had 
drawn her to him, saying as he did so: “I must touch 
you delicately, tenderly, adoringly, for you are willing 
to pass through pitiful suffering, and even privation 


286 


GLAD RAY 


if necessary, to become the most sacred of God’s gifts, 
—A Mother. Have you no fear, beloved?” 

“There is no fear; there is only love,” she had 
affirmed. 

Then came the years of suspense, pain, humiliation 
helplessness and contrition. 

Once Gladys asked Miss Weeks to look in the City 
directory for Doctor Raymond Hallaway’s location. 
When his residence address and telephone number 
were found she was satisfied to learn he was still in 
Louisville, but her own blindness kept her from per¬ 
mitting him to find out she was among the living, or 
that she desired to speak with him. 

Another time she requested Miss Weeks to cautious¬ 
ly inquire about the Doctor, his practice and reputa¬ 
tion. When her secretary had quietly gathered suffi- 
ceint information, the blind woman’s heart was re¬ 
joiced by learning of the esteem in which the father of 
her little girl was held by the public, and in certain 
Hospitals. She listened with silent but human satis¬ 
faction to the news that Doctor Hallaway had never 
married. It took more than ordinary courage not to 
call him over the ’phone, just to hear his voice once 
more, and without replying, hang up the receiver. 

With material sight gone, the baby passed out or 
apparently lost, there appeared little left for Gladys 
Breckenridge to do save to distribute words of cheer, 
perform deeds of kindness and live the life of unselfish 
love she so yearned to share with those near and dear 
to her heart. 


CHAPTER XX 


F OR MORE than fourteen years Big Jack Sullivan 
had guarded the one secret of his life. There 
were times when he longed to tell his faithful Susan. 
—to take her into the depths of the forest far from the 
world of men and whisper what he knew. Then it 
seemed the very trees might hear. There were other 
times when he determined to carry his secret to the 
grave. As the years sped on and Glad ripened into 
womanhood the secret was always troubling Jack. 
Some day Glad would love a man. He would pro¬ 
pose marriage. Then he must tell and the roses, he 
thought, would fade from her cheeks and her merry 
laughter die. She would wither like a flower and the 
wrinkles come. The secret concerned the birth of 
Glad. Years before when the iron trunk containing 
the child’s belongings had been carried to the attic 
Jack had known. In delving through the little one’s 
treasures, packed so carefully by her mother, he had 
found the letter. His one desire was to find some trace 
of the parents of the waif, as he knew the child did 
not belong to Stella Allen or the Allen family. One 
day he had steamed open the personal missive ad¬ 
dressed to Glad to be read on her eighteenth birthday. 
His first impulse was to destroy the letter. For hours 
he pondered over the question. Now the time was near 

287 


288 


GLAD RAY 


when he must decide. He could still spare Glad the 
shame, humiliation and unnecessary suffering by keep¬ 
ing the secret of her birth. There would be nothing 
wrong in that, he thought. But if she would want to 
marry,—well the man should know. 

Glad did not evince interest in the type of young men 
who visited the Tavern. Occasionally a dapper young 
chap from the city would try to make advances but the 
girl’s intuition protected her and she remained heart 
whole. After she returned from Duluth and high 
school, with the books chosen for her by Mrs. High¬ 
land, she found her greatest diversion from house¬ 
hold work in study. For hours she would read and 
think and write. Why she jotted down her thoughts 
she did not know. She always insisted to Uncle Jack 
and Aunt Susan that she was more inspired and 
learned more in close communion with the woods and 
streams than she did even from her books. This de¬ 
lighted the aging couple whose only schooling was 
the university of hard knocks and who feared the 
effect of loneliness on their ward. 

Tourist season was coming again and Uncle Tack 
was wondering. Some of these days, he was think¬ 
ing, the right man will come along and pick “our 
wild rose.” He dreaded the day he would have to 
relate the entire secret. Gruff, hardened, bitter at times, 
the woodsman had the heart of a child. He could not 
inflict pain, and deep down in his heart there was a 
love of God and man no visitor to the woods ever had 
uncovered. He had an unusual faith in justice and the 
right. It did not seem fair that this beautiful girl 


GLAD RAY 


289 


should suffer for a sin she knew nothing about. It 
was bad enough to be a foundling but had even the 
Anstrums ever surmised the real truth, Glad would 
have been a social outcast. He had saved the child, 
and he meant to spare the young woman as long as 
possible. 

There was a letter left for him on the bar early one 
bright morning that kept him thinking seriously. He 
seemed to know a shadow was about to fall across Pike 
Lake Tavern. 

“Got a letter here from a feller livin’ in the Rocky 
Mountains, Susan/’ he began, “who’s agoin’ to send 
his ’dopted son out here to Pike Lake woods fer pine 
air, fishin’ en ’scen’ry. He sez thet he’s a painter and 
visited here hizself years ago.” 

“I haint never hed no likin’ fer what-you-call-ems ? 
Artists? I’d rether give me best room to that prim 
pick-up o’ ourn, Glad Ray,” and Susan Sullivan’s voice 
rasped out its customary nagging retort, as she thought 
of the “extre wurk.” “What’s tha feller’s father’s 
name, Jack?” she asked by way of showing more in¬ 
terest in the expected boarder. 

“The father’s name ez ‘Carston Ronning’, an’ that 
boy’s name ez—let’s see,” and again Jack Sullivan ad¬ 
justed his glasses to search through the letter for the 
lad’s name. “Ahem. Front name’s plain ‘John’— 
plain ‘John Ronning’.” 

“Hesn’t got sech a fancy name ez his father, hez he?” 

“Nope, but I like it a heap better,” and old Sullivan 
filled his foul smelling pipe. 

“Call thet pick-up gel,” rasped Susan. “Where ez 


290 


GLAD RAY 


she, innyway? I vow she’s readin’ some of thim there 
ol’ fool books o’ hern ’bout Soul en Beauty, en One 
Mind with God, en’ the likes o’ sech truck. Ivvery 
time she draws her wages, ’cause she gits duds from 
you, she ups an’ spends her dollar a week fer fool 
books thet fill ’er top with sech stuff ez I niver hearn 
tell of. I onct told her, sez I, thet I got on all thez 
years without thim high-soundin' noshuns en new fan- 
gled idees, en ez they would’h buy shooze fer her feet; 
but jist b’lieve me, she ez the bull-headest critter un¬ 
der her yaller top thet I ivver see. Ef she wa’n’t 
kind o’ pertty en' the like en mixed drinks well, I’d o’ 
sint her hoofin’ fer ’erself long time past. Thet gel’s 
no earthly good et scrubbin’ ner washin’!” Susan 
snapped her thin lips together, knowing all the time 
she loved Glad Ray in her rough, honest way. 

“ Peers to me she makes beds all right, shines the 
glasses, enkeeps th’ bar cleaner'n most inny help we 
ivver bed ’fore she growed big ’nough to work fer her 
dollar spendin’ money.” Jack Sullivan puffed a bit 
harder on his old corn-cob pipe. 

“Ef you hedn’t alius stuck fer her, I’d o’ sint ’er 
out tha orfint’s farm, whur she b’longs; but you got 
sum kind o’ ideees en religion, thet you thot Stella 
Allen 'ed o’ rizzed out o’ her grave ef you din’t keep 
Glad ’bout here.” 

“She don’t do no harm, nohow, Susan, ol gel. She 
ez moighty good-lookin’ too, en holds trade at tha 
bar.” 

“I nivver see sech a ol’ boob as you be innyway; 
you kin see the pattern o’ a woomin’s stockins a mile 


GLAD RAY 


291 


away; you kin find a pertty face on a woomin thet ez 
a cross ’tween a fat punkin en a crooked tack.” 
Susan jerked her head with a set air. 

“Susan!” 

“Yep! Thet’s thru! Simps! Ol’ fools,—most 
men your age.” 

“Thar’s minny a hunter thet steers this a’ way jist 
to see Glad Ray’s big brown eyes, picter face, en 
golden curls, I reckon.” Great rings of grey smoke 
rose above Sullivan’s head as he tried in his crude wav 
to defend his ward. 

“I kin’t see ez how she’s orfully pertty, Jack.” 

“Wall, you don’t like to see ’er ’tall, inny ways, so 
no use arguin’ ’bout thet.” 

“Wheres the yaller top now ? Hid in her attic room 
I jist bet. O’ she’s some wurker, she ez! Git a move 
on you an’ call her to fix tha big spare room.” 

“All right, Susan, ef youh’ll stop pickin’ on ’er, I 
will. She hez bin here since she wuz a baby 'bout 
three year ol,’ I reckin; now, ez she ez almost a young 
woman, she’ll up en git out; thin you’ll hev to put a 
stranger into harness, ef you don’t larn to hoi’ yer 
tongue a bit.” 

“Hoi’ yourn, en call tha high-tone reeder o’ tha 
family.” Susan went into the pantry to see if Glad 
Ray had eaten more than her share of prunes,—Glad’s 
favorite dish. 

“ 'Glad ?’ Be ye up in yer room, gel ?” 

“Yes, Uncle Jack. Am I needed now?” came the 
sweet response. 

“Cum on down, gel. Yer Aunt sez, sez she, thet you 


292 


GLAD RAY 


air to fix up the big spare room in the lake wing o’ th’ 
house, fer a new boarder thet ‘ez cornin’.” 

“Yes, Uncle,” and the beautiful face was effulgent 
with the same irreststible smile which had won Jack 
Sullivan completely when a baby. 

“Wearin’ those same ol’ shooze, gel?” 

“Yes, Uncle Jack; you see if I sent for my new book 
on ‘Philosophy of Living,’ I couldn’t buy my shoes. 
The book means more to me than shoes. You won’t 
mind, will you? You dear, old uncle!” Glad Ray 
slipped her arm about the stooped shoulders of the 
only kind friend she had ever known. 

“Nope, nivver. But, I don’t know what yer Aunt 
Susan’ll say, gel.” The old man sat down on the 
attic stairs and refilled his pipe. 

“If it were not for you, Uncle Jack, I’d have run 
away long, long ago.” The “pick-up” snuggled close 
to her protector. “If Aunt Susan had a child of her 
own she would be different, I’m sure,” Glad 
apologized. 

“Too thru,—to thru, gel; but she ez my wife, Susan 
ez, en we’ll try en take quite a bit o’ back talk ’fore 
we kick, won’t we, gel ?” he answered defendinglv, 
“Susan’s a good woomin.” 

“Yes, Uncle, she is a good woman, and I love her 
too, and we will take any amount of scoldings and 
know she means well.” 

So saying, Glad Ray went to her homely duties 
singing hopefully, if not cheerfully, while old Sullivan 
returned to the kitchen to “fetch” in wood and put 
over the “kittle” for his wife. 


GLAD RAY 


293 


“Thought you’d got caught on a hook in the attic, 
or was listenin’ to the pick-up readin’ her fool stuff; it 
sure took you an’ age to do ez I told yuh,” and 
Susan pulled the thin peelings from the cold boiled 
potatoes with a jerk. 

“Nope, jist set on tha attic stairs a bit to finish 
my pipe.” 

“Got a extree basement to yuhr pipe, I reckon. 
You an’ your pipe ortter be en tha woodshed fetchin’ 
in thet wood.” She cast a glaring look in her hus¬ 
band’s direction. “How do you’ spec tha kittle tuh 
bile? By settin, on tha attic stairs?” 

“Nope, gentle dove,” and Sullivan dodged a cold 
potato. 

“Got clean towels and sech in tha spare room, 
'Glad’ ?” she inquired as her ward entered the kitchen. 
Mrs. Sullivan’s voice was not pitched quite so high 
as usual. 

“Yes, Aunt Susan, it is all sweet and tidy.” Glad 
started to set the table for tea. 

“Moighty long toime fixin’ up tha room. What 
was you doin’ ?” 

“After I made the room clean and neat I sat down 
and read a little in my new book.” 

“Readin’, eh ? Readin’ in tha spare room ?” 

“Yes, Aunt, I was reading.” Glad continued to ar¬ 
range the table as artistically as she could with a 
colored cloth and cutlery which had lost its plate sev¬ 
eral years before. 

“Why did you want to read en tha spare room, you 
yaller-headed book-worm.” 


294 


GLAD RAY 


“The more harmonious the room, the more har¬ 
monious is one’s mind, and altogether one is in better 
poise to receive the truths of the great writers.” Glad 
Ray did not raise her eyes while she tried to define 
her preference for an atmosphere of refinement and 
cleanliness. 

“Indade! Sech fool noshuns! Ef your own eyes 
kint read yuhr hoigh-toned books in inny oh place, en 
git tha same idees, ets all bunk, so et ez. You nivver 
larnt sech readin’ until afther you graduwaited from 
tha grammar school. Sure, en I think you got tha 
noshuns from meetin’ some of the good-fer-nothin’s 
thet come up yer ta shott ’n fish; thim critters thet 
hez toime to burn, en a heap more money than brains. 
You’ll larn to bake better pies in tha kitchen then you 
will in tha spare room. I reckon yuh kin git to wurk 
en fry these taters for a beginnin’.” 

Jack Sullivan made considerable noise with the 
woodbox he was filling, and pretended not to hear 
to drown his wife’s nagging warble. He had pre¬ 
tended frequently of late that his hearing was failing, 
so old Susan’s sharp tongue could rattle until it was 
weary, and there would be no quarrel. 

“You Uncle Jack ez sure gittin’ deefer ’n deefer, I 
do vow.” Susan proceeded to open a jar of wild 
raspberries for the finishing touch to their evening 
meal. 

After Glad Ray had washed up the dishes, she 
set the table nearest the east window in the kitchen 
ready for breakfast as the “paintin’ feller,” was ex¬ 
pected to arrive in time for the morning meal; and 


GLAD RAY 


295 


about eleven o’clock went up to her humble attic bed¬ 
room where she lighted a candle, balancing it on a 
broken saucer, and opened one of her favorite books. 

For a moment she scanned a page, then the book 
dropped to her lap. She surveyed the barren attic. 
Flickering shadows danced like spirits. A gust of 
wind blew out the candle. Through the attic window 
she could see the quarter moon. From below came 
the sounds of coarse laughter as ribald stories were 
told. Accidentally Glad stumbled over the old iron 
trunk. She lighted the candle once more, and con¬ 
templated the contents. It contained the Sullivan 
family papers, the ancestral silver, a few paintings, 
but nothing tangible to Glad Ray. She began to 
ponder over the affairs of her foster uncle and Aunt 
Susan. They had been young once, too. They must 
have loved as others love. Now they were growing 
old, and they were cross, thought Glad. Why are 
people like that? Will I be cross and old? Is hatred 
an outgrowth of love? Of course not. Will I ever 
love ? Perhaps, but who would love a waif,—a woman 
who could tell nothing about her parents. Who was 
my mother anyway? Is she alive? And my father? 
Are they old and cross ? Musing, half thinking aloud, 
Glad Ray sat far into the night. 

Time and again, long after her foster parents were 
asleep, Glad would sit thinking about her past and 
dream about the future. The puzzle of her birth 
and parentage grew less important as she began to 
understand the fatherhood of God. One night she 
found the passage in the new testament where the Mas- 


296 


GLAD RAY 


ter asked: “Who is my brother?" Glad pondered and 
then she just seemed to know that the real Glad 
Ray was a child of Nature , on earth by his will, and 
just as good as any other girl. Having reached this 
decision there came a consciousness of strength so new 
to her that she would sit in awe trying vainly 
to grasp the problems of the Infinite. She saw no 
reason for unhappiness when there was so much good 
and so many beautiful things in the world. She re¬ 
alized her trouble at high school had been because she 
had not faced her enemies and overcome their malice 
and resentment through love and service. Laying her 
book aside, Glad reached for her note book, reading 
pages of her closely written manuscript. She realized 
she was nearing her eighteenth birthday. Leaning on 
the table as she wrote, she made this notation: 

“Dear Father and Mother: I am almost eighteen. I do 
not know who you are or where. I love you both. You 
could not have deserted me and left me to die because 
you must certainly have been good parents. All things 
are good; and all good is eternal. You seem so near. 
How I yearn for you tonight. Some day the mystery of 
it all will be made clear to me.” 

Your own Glad Ray. 

The moon had passed out of her vision hours before. 
Lost in reverie she did not note the passing of time 
but it seemed to be growing light outside when she 
finally turned down the ragged comfort, and smoothed 
the sheet. The candle had burned low and she snipped 
it only to sit back in her chair again. The world 
seemed so still and peaceful that the distant patter of 
horse’s hoofs sounded like a troop of cavalry. Nearer 


GLAD RAY 


297 


and nearer the night driver c^ne. She could not 
understand why any traveler would be coming to the 
tavern at this unheard of hour, but she did not fee 1 
alarmed. Then buggy wheels grated on the gravel be¬ 
low as the team came to a full stop. Out of the night 
came the cheerful: 

“H-e-l-l-o, H-e-l-l-o!” 

All nervousness vanquished as Glad crept to her 
tiny window to see who the cheerful stranger might 
be. She knew Uncle Jack would soon be at the 
door with his feigned gruff voice at being awakened, 
but she also knew that cheery “H-e-l-l-o v would win 
him over. Anxiously she waited. Finally the door be¬ 
low opened, the glare of Lhicle Jack's lantern hit the 
rig full and out stepped a tall, broad shouldered youth. 
The ray of light flashed on his features a moment and 
Glad beheld a smile she never forgot. 


CHAPTER XXI. 


SSTRON John” made the Harvard team during his 

A freshman year. The coach and student body 
picked him as the rising foot ball star of a decade. He 
played at right half on the second team and made such 
persistent advances through the regular line that the 
coach determined to use him in the minor games if 
the faculty would consent to a freshman smashing a 
college regulation. During the training season the 
coach laid him off the second eleven time and again 
under the pretense of teaching him the mysteries of the 
place kick. The real reason however was to give some 
of the regular line men a chance to heal their bruises. 

In the class room “Iron John” won early season 
honors and attracted the attention of tutors under 
whom he doubled in some of the minor courses. The 
rising athlete soon swung into the college ways and 
became so popular he was elected class president, an 
unusual distinction for a westerner. All honors sat 
easily on the broad shoulders of this born leader of 
men. Perfectly at home in a drawing room or on the 
football field, “Iron John” did not balk at any activity 
open to a freshman, with the single exception that he 
refused to play the mandolin. He declared his greatest 
specialty was his unusual capacity for ham and eggs. 
At the training table every morning the master of cere- 

298 


GLAD LAY 


299 


monies would nod to the athletes, every head would 
bow in the mock ceremony of grace, and a deep solemn 
voice would exclaim, 

“Please pass the eggs.” 

For four years the jest continued and “Iron John” 
ran true to form. During his Harvard career of law 
and athletics the distinction that seemed to please the 
college star more than all the medals was his reputa¬ 
tion as an egg eater. Imagine the surprise of John 
Ronning, however, on the morning after his arrival at 
the Pike Lake Tavern when the most musical voice he 
ever had heard, inquired: 

“Will you have some more eggs, sir?” 

Looking up in amazement he gazed into a pair of 
wonderful, soft, brown eyes that seemed to hold him, 
and the cheerful smile fled leaving his face crimson. 
He, “Iron John,” completely bowled over by “a skirt,” 
—it was enough to make the strongest blush. 

“Excuse me, Venus,” he stammered, “I’ll tell you 
the story and you will understand.” 

The golden head nodded approvingly and John Ron¬ 
ning for the first time beheld the beautiful features of 
this wild flower of the forest. 

“Please not now,” smiled Glad Ray, “Eve got to 
wash the dishes.” 

“Sweet roses by the old garden gate,” thought John, 
“a cheerful dishwasher! Well, she can wash my china 
for life.” 

John Ronning had come to the pine woods of Min¬ 
nesota to relax after the final examinations at Har- 


300 


GLAD RAY 


vard. He wanted to fish, tramp through the forests, 
and plan his future. He had a fine start. 

“Eggs?” he heard the sweet voice repeat. 

“Yes,” he replied with emphasis, “bring twelve in 
relays of one each.” 

Glad was charmed with the stranger's manner, his 
good humor and even the color of his flannel shirt. 
She did not lose her poise for a moment, but with 
mock seriousness carried out his order and presented a 
check for services. She did refuse his generous tip, 
however, with a little tremor in her voice that won his 
admiration. 

Giving the stranger time to ponder over the wonders 
of Nature, she left the room to return a few moments 
later laden with an armful of wild cherry blossoms 
which she arranged in an old fashioned pitcher on the 
table before him. 

Wonderful, indeed, was the mass of wavy golden 
hair brushed away from shapely temples, and dressed 
loosely over her lovely neck. Her complexion was far 
from possible on canvas; the only artist able to do 
justice to the quick changes of pink and cream which 
came and went in her wonderful face was the Creator, 
Himself. The lithe, girlish figure was clad in a dis¬ 
carded waist of her Aunt’s, an old cast-off skirt, and a 
simple blue and white gingham apron. The waist was 
open at the throat, and loose sleeves ended just above 
the dimpled elbows. 

“Are you,—pardon me,—but are you the daughter 
of the owner?” Ronning quite forgot the last egg and 
slice of bacon which had grown cold. He was even 



AN ARMFUL OF WILD CHERRY BLOSSOMS” 










































GLAD RAY 


301 


rude in his surprised admiration of the vision before 
him. Glad Ray turned and faced the new boarder, as 
she answered timidly: 

“No, sir, Mr. Sullivan is my—is my adopted Uncle. 
I am an orphan as far as I know.” 

Thinking possibly her response had been to confid¬ 
ing, she busied herself with the blossoms. 

“An orphan, did you say ?” 

“So far as I know,” Glad Ray repeated, and em¬ 
barrassed by the questioning, honest gaze of the 
stranger, she backed away and overturned one of the 
heavy wooden chairs which caused old Susan to open 
the kitchen door with a jerk. 

“What hev you busted now, you valler-headed or- 
fint?” she shouted. Seeing John Ronning, Susan 
slammed the door without waiting for a reply. 

“Who is that?” John inquired. He assisted the 
trembling girl to get the chair on its unsteady legs, as 
he glared toward the kitchen. 

“She is my adopted Aunt,—Aunt Susan.” Flushed 
and humiliated, Glad tried to back out of the room as 
quickly as possible. 

“She roars like a lion,” he exclaimed in disgust. “I 
beg your pardon, if I have appeared rude. I did not 
mean to stare at you so, but—but—” He never com¬ 
pleted that sentence for fear she would doubt his sin¬ 
cerity, but forgot his good manners by exclaiming: 
“That woman's voice is like a sharp buzz-saw, and her 
method of investigation,—” 

“Please do not notice it. Aunt Susan is my Uncle 
Jack’s wife. He is my only friend,—the kindest man 


302 


r 


GLAD RAY 


I ever knew. She means to be kind, too,—really she 
does, but something sharpened her tongue. You can’t 
always realize her goodness because of the hasty words 
which escape her lips.” 

Glad Ray’s defense of her Aunt did not fail to im¬ 
press young Ronning, and the beautiful girl became 
more wonderful to him. 

“Do you ever walk through the pine woods?” he 
asked. 

“I work most of the time, and when not working I 
run away to my room in the attic to read my books,— 
they are such good company.” 

“Paragon of paragons! And you live here in these 
forests ?” 

“Yes, why not? Uncle Jack and I love every bit of 
this wild and rugged country.” 

“Please may I inquire your name?” 

“Miss Ray, sir,” she replied, fumbling with some 
broken cherry blossom twigs. “My full name is Glad 
Ray.” She lowered her large, brown eyes modestly. 

For the first time John Ronning noticed that the 
girl’s eyelashes were long and silky. He had heard of 
hair-dressing shops producing brown-eyed blondes, but 
here was Nature’s own lavish handiwork, and nothing 
missing from the picture. 

“ ‘Glad Ray?’ What a lovely name! There should 
be something in common between us, Miss Ray, if you 
will permit the suggestion. I am an orphan also. I 
was adopted by an artist and his wife about fifteen 
years ago. It might be interesting if we exchanged 


GLAD RAY 


303 


stories about our adoption. Would you like to walk 
this afternoon?” 

“I would go if it were possible but,—well, I never 
go out with anyone with the exception of Aunt Susan 
and Uncle Jack. You see they pay me one dollar a 
week for my services, and I must keep busy to earn 
the money and my clothes.” 

Clothes! If the faded outfit she wore at that mo¬ 
ment was a good sample, he did not doubt the poor 
girl earned all she received. 

“Should it be necessary to have a guide through the 
woods for a few days, to whom shall I go, Miss Ray?” 

“Ask Uncle Jack, and he will assign someone to you. 
He frequently supplies guides for the hunters and fish¬ 
ermen who come here from all over the state.” 

“Will you please shake hands with me? My name 
is John Ronning, and I am anxious to be friends, if 
you will permit.” 

“Thank you,” and she wiped her calloused palm on 
her apron before offering it to the affable stranger. 

“There, now we are friends, aren’t we? You 
needn’t feel afraid of me. I am new to these woods, 
and unknown to you, but come from a respectable 
home and honorable foster parents whose name I will 
forever respect.” 

He still held her hand, as he looked into the depths 
of her lovely dark eyes. A great sigh of satisfaction 
escaped Glad Ray’s lips as she silently received the 
confidence. At that moment, Aunt Susan again 
opened the kitchen door and thrust her beak-like face 
into full view. 


304 


GLAD RAY 


“Now what air you up to? Tryin’ to toiler the steps 
of thim females thet cum up yer ’n carreeges with the 
husbuns of other females? I bet yuh alive thet you 
air makin’ a date.” 

“Aunt Susan! Please don’t—please don’t speak 
so!” Glad Ray covered her crimson face with her 
toil worn hands. 

“I beg your pardon, madam, but I asked the young 
lady her name, introduced myself, and was shaking 
hands with her when you opened the door,” exclaimed 
Ronning. 

“Don’t try to make inny excuses to me,—see? I 
hev met the likes o’ yous before.” Without further 
argument, Susan again vanished, banging the door be¬ 
hind her. 

In an attempt to relieve the embarrassing situation, 
John Ronning walked leisurely into the barroom which 
also served as an office for the Tavern. Jack Sullivan 
was lifting a stove-length of log into the old air-tight 
heater. 

“Great weather you people are having up here in the 
pine forests,—a most perfect Spring—wild cherrv 
blossoms and all.” 

“Yep. We like ev’ry part o’ the year. Smells of 
young pine most of the time up here. Notice it? You 
hev foine air en tha mountains, too, eh?” He offered 
a chair to his guest and split a pint bottle of cold root 
beer. 

“Thanks. Ah,—great.” The younger man smacked 
his lips. “Yes, we have plenty of bracing air. Where 
my father has his ranch he has low mountains of rocks 


GLAD RAY 


305 


and straggling under-nourished oaks—and in between 
are acres of plateaus of meadow grass and tall fine 
forest trees, but there is very little pine in our vicinity. 
Dad thought I needed to rest my nerves in this Minne¬ 
sota air for a few weeks. Been grinding law into my 
brains rather hard of late.” 

“Studyin’ as how ta keep out o’ jail, eh?” 

“Rather, how to keep the other man out, I trust; and 
how to save his neck.” John smiled good-naturedly. 

“Will you shtart pertty soon?” Jack Sullivan had 
always held a profound respect for lawyers since, sev¬ 
eral years before, he had been obliged to engage one 
who successfully defended him. 

“I hope to open an office for myself this winter, 
after I visit down South in Kentucky where my foster 
mother was born.” 

“My wife’s people en some o’ mine, was onc’t livin’ 
down thet a’ways.” 

Ronning didn’t care where the ancestors of the 
shrew, Susan, lived. The present concerned him far 
more, so the subject was adroitly changed. 

“How do you manage to keep the trail about these 
woods, and find the best places for fishing and hun¬ 
ting?” 

“Wall,—I ginerly kin git a guide fer tha boarders,” 
and he pressed a button on the bar near where they 
were standing. In less than a minute Glad Ray stood 
in the doorway. 

“May I do something for you, Uncle?” 


306 


GLAD RAY 


“Yes, gel, fix up a ‘house-special’ fer tha young 
man.” He motioned to the whiskey decanter. 

“Pardon me, but I never drink anything stronger 
than tea, coffee or soft drinks.” Ronning glanced in 
the direction of the vision whose face was a picture of 
satisfaction as she listened to his refusal. 

“Nivver?” Sullivan looked his boarder over as 
though he were a freak. 

“Never,” he responded kindly, but positively. 

“Wall, you miss a powerful foine drink whin you 
don’t take whut tha gel kin mix fer you.” The Tavern 
owner rubbed his coarse hands on his stomach as 
though he were experiencing the false delights of the 
stimulant at that moment. 

“I’ve no doubt but it would be extra fine if your 
niece mixed it, but,—well I just don’t care for drink at 
all.” 

Glad Ray stood transfixed with admiration that at 
least one man couldn’t be influenced or coddled into 
drinking, when old Sullivan’s gruff voice suddenly 
brought her back to reality. 

“Gel, how w’d yuh loike to act ez ‘guide’ fer Mister 
Ronning, today ? Carryin’ a basket o’ grub, en tha pot 
to bile tha coffee en, ’long with yuh?” Turning to his 
boarder, he added: “Can’t think o’ innybody in these 
yer parts what ez not right busy this mornin,’ so I 
think you kin carry tha gun en she kin carry tha eats. 
How ez it wid you, gel ?” 

“Just as you wish, Uncle Jack, I know all the trails, 
and would love to go for a long hike on such a perfect 


morning. 


GLAD RAY 


307 


This was exactly what both young people secretly 
desired, but neither one wished to make it noticeable 
to the other, and particularly to the owner of Pike 
Lake Tavern. 

“That would suit me nicely, I can assure you, if the 
young lady wouldn’t become too tired.” John Ron- 
ning glanced at Glad Ray with an expression of forced 
indifference. 

“She'll travel twiced ez fur ez you ’fore she gits 
tired, won’t yuh, gel?” 

“Uncle means that I could possibly go over the trail 
twice to your once because I am accustomed to labor 
and walking, while you are not.” 

“We will see, Miss Ray. How soon before we 
start?” And the college athlete smiled at the incon¬ 
sistent comparison of this graceful girl’s physical 
strength with his own. 

“I will grind the coffee and pack the lunch immedi¬ 
ately, and we can be gone in thirty minutes.” 

“Hurry along, gel,—Mr. Ronning will be afther 
wantin’ tuh try hez luck et shootin’.” 

Glad Ray left the room with a smile on her lips dif¬ 
ficult to suppress. 

“Don’t know ez how I’d git along widout thet gel. 
She ez tha ’hole world o’ sunshine to me.” The old 
man lighted his corn-cob pipe and puffed hard on it. 

“She is the most beautiful girl I have ever seen.” 
Ronning was sincere in every word he uttered. 

“She ez peeculyer in some ways. She likes to be 
alone en readin’ en readin’ to beat tha band. She reads 
high-flown books, an’ tha likes. Glad ez not like other 


308 


GLAD RAY 


gels. She nivver craves compinny; nivver bin afther 
kapin’ compinny with young fellers. Tha only friends 
she hez ivver bin crazy ’bout ez books en pets. Say, 
she hez got a whole circus out ’n tha loft of tha barn, 
en a hospital en tha basement, whar she keers fer tha 
sick dogs an’ cats. She likes fussin’ ’round the sick 
moighty well, but thar’s nothin’ doin’ en tha sick loine 
’mong tha farmer folk en these yer parts. Tha pine 
woods an’ lake breezes seems tuh kape ’em all pertty 
much alive. My rumatiz gits moighty bad onct en a 
while, but Glad, she jes fixes the dope an’ rubs me 
shoulders an’ arms fer a spell an’ I gits first rate agin.” 

The new boarder was drinking in every word honest 
old Sullivan said of his adopted niece, when the girl 
entered the barroom with basket filled, gun ready, and 
kettle tied beside the lunch. 

“Won’t you need rubbers over your shoes, Miss 
Ray? Your feet seem inadequately protected for so 
long a hike.” 

“Thet ez mother peeculyer t’hing ’bout me gel. 
She’d spend her last cent fer books ez she did whin she 
got this week’s pay, an’ wear her ol’ worn out shooze 
’stead o’ buyin’ new ones.” 

“Dear Uncle, you don’t understand how I crave to 
learn, and how little anyone truly gets of school when 
forced to stop at the first year of High. Why, about 
that period you’re just beginning to grasp the gift of 
concentration, and really are learning how to study. 
That is why I am reading all the time.” Glad Ray was 
almost alarmed at her own confession, and lowered her 
expressive eyes in confusion. 


GLAD RAY 


309 


“Nivver moind, gel. I want you to read all you 
want ’tuh. By tha way, this young feller aint sech a 
much o’ a paintin’ guy afther all; seems he ez goiiT to 
start in ez a lawyer pertty soon; meybe you’ll injov 
a’talkin’ with him a bit whin you walks, en tha likes.” 

“Are you a lawyer, sir?” Glad was thankful she 
could speak to someone who could utter a grammatical 
sentence, and who evidently found food and mental 
strength in good books. 

“I am supposed to be; and I anticipate starting in 
the practice of law this year after my vacation. Glanc¬ 
ing at his watch, he added: “May we start now, Miss 
Ray ?” 

“This minute. Goodbye, Uncle. Tell Aunt Susan 
not to worry. I would have said ‘goodbye’ to her, but 
she seems cross this morning, and I think you had bet¬ 
ter make my excuses.” 

“Yes, Glad, yer ol’ Uncle will fight fer yuh ’til Hell 
freezes over. Goodbye, gel.” 

Jack Sullivan kissed the forehead of his “Sunshine 
gel,” and assigned each a bundle to carry. 

“Assure Mrs. Sullivan, if you please, that your niece 
will be properly protected and home before dark. 
Goodbye.” 

“Indade, an’ don’t worry. Ef I din’t see tha truth in 
yer eyes, et isn’t me niece thet’d be with yuh.” 

John Ronning and Glad Ray then set out to follow 
a few of the most interesting trails through the pine 
woods. 

A few evenings later, John Ronning wrote this letter 
home:— 


310 


GLAD RAY 


Dearest Folks at Home: 

I can see your dear faces, little mother Betty, and big 
Dad, just as I left you waiving “Goodbye/'—which I knew 
was intended for “God speed you on to success.” Thank 
you for the wholesome thoughts you have given me! All 
the Colleges on the globe could never teach the truths you 
and Dad have instilled into my very soul. 

This is a great place; far nicer than the Resort book 
states. I have an intelligent guide, and everything about 
here is interesting, and smells fresh and pleasant of young 
pines. Frank Sullivan, the owner of the Tavern, is an 
honest but ignorant fellow, with a big heart full of un¬ 
selfishness and pride for his adopted niece. Sullivan’s 
wife, Susan (I think of her as a half-tamed tigress in 
clothes) is the worst old nagger I have ever heard of in 
life or books. However, she is a well-meaning creature, 
but forgets to draw in her claws. 

The niece, whose name is “Glad Ray,” is so innocent 
and beautiful that I can compare her only to a delicate 
wild-flower,—perfect in Nature’s unadorned loveliness, 
giving forth perpetual radiation and unselfishness, all the 
time feasting on the wonders she alone observes in the 
spiritual perfectness all about. You see, I am even versed 
in her phraseology so early in the game. She belongs to 
neither church nor cult, but reads, studies, sees, and lives 
the hours to truly improve her being. She impresses 
all with whom she comes in contact with her purity and 
sincerity. I have met many girls, but this one is not a mere 
girl; she is one of the choice blessings a man encounters 
but a few times in life. Frankly, I have to confess that 
in my four years away at school, or under any other 
conditions, I have never met, nor do I expect to meet any 
more bewitching and sincerely wholesome girl than Glad 
Ray. She is the most charming and unassuming creature 
I can describe. I have never seen anything more than a 
cheap gingham dress on her beautiful body, yet if Dad 
were here he would rave over her perfect features from 
the standpoint of a model. 

Glad Ray has lived here in Pike Lake ever since she was 
a baby. After attending rural school until she was pre¬ 
pared for High, she has spent most of her earnings (a 
* beastly dollar a week as barmaid, slavey, domestic and 
drudge) for books of a superior order. It would almost 
seem cruel to take her out of these pine woods and bring 
her in touch with the cold, calculating world; yet it would 
be vastly more tragic if the outside world were never to 
be refreshed by one so natural and beautiful. 


GLAD RAY 


311 


Dad, please do not think I am completely bereft of my 
senses, but to be honest with you, if Glad Ray will honor 
me and promise to become my wife, I’ll give her a chance 
to go to the same training school for nurses which mother 
Betty attended, while I am establishing a law practice. 
Nursing seems to be her ambition; and she would make 
just such a conscientious attendant as you have often told 
me mother Betty made when she was young. 

Dearest mother Betty, the $1000 you gave me for my 
graduation gift will just about do what I desire done. 
Will tell you of my plans later. If I like it in Louisville, 
am just sentimental enough to wish to remain, mainly be¬ 
cause you were born and married Dad there, and all your 
people lived there. That remains me—so far as Frank 
Sullivan knows, his niece was also born in Louisville. 

Am going to remain here ten days longer—just long 
enough to get an answer from you, and expect you to tell 
me the name of your training school for nurses, as I’ll 
have to get Glad Ray located the first day, or that rasping 
cat of an Aunt will tell the poor girl she is not respectable, 
as she has already done in my presence. 

Now, dear folks, believe me acting with the sincerest 
respect in the world for all concerned. 

With abundant love, I am 

Your obedient son, JOHN RONNING. 

John had known Glad Ray about one week, but 
it seemed to both that they bad been playmates of 
years gone by. During their long hikes around the 
lake and through the woods, they had talked of many 
things. He could not blot out the vision of her loveli¬ 
ness as they tramped in the depths of the forest and by 
the sparkling waters. He was in love with this inno¬ 
cent, bewitching girl, and knew the symptoms. Glad 
loved him, and he was almost positive of that too. He 
was fairly delirious with the joy love had brought to 
his life. Neither had mentioned any emotion other 
than their common love of things beautiful; but, when 
separated for a few hours, both dreamed again the 
alluring moments they had spent in each other’s com¬ 
pany. 


CHAPTER XXII 


D AYS SPED by on the wings of Love. Something 
in the consciousness of John Ronning cried out 
for Glad Ray. He found in her a lovable companion 
whose unusual knowledge of nature constantly added 
to his wealth of information. She told him all about 
the habits of her friends of the forest, explained in 
minutest detail weird rock formations, helped solve 
untold mysteries of never ending streamlets, and spiced 
it all with flashes of philosphy that seemed to draw him 
closer to God. The nearer John Ronning seemed to 
approach the Infinite the closer he found himself to 
Glad Ray. 

Glad's love found expression in every conceivable 
service. She was gay or serious,—always harmon¬ 
ious with her companion’s moods. Her’s was a nature 
of naturalness and happiness, forever doing everything 
to delight Ronning without knowing why. She 
seemed to be under the direction of a power greater 
than her own. They had talked of love, of course, but 
in a rather impersonal way. Glad appreciated fully 
the difference in their social positions and marveled 
that this educated and charming man could find so 
much of interest in her. Like all true love the personal 
was forgotten in the one grand harmony, both thinking 
only of the glorious NOW. 

312 


GLAD RAY 


313 


Through the woods they roamed, down past 
the District School where Glad had arrived in 
state on the back of “Old Sal.” On the schoolhouse 
step they talked of education and what it had done 
and would do for the country boy and girl. They 
climbed the split rail fence, and strolled along the high¬ 
way hand in hand. Under the giant pine by the fish¬ 
ing hole they tarried while John set his line. 

“The better I know you Glad, the fewer fish I 
catch,” John confessed. 

“The fewer fish you catch, the sweeter will be our 
friendship,” was Glad’s reply. 

Out of a well-filled luncheon basket Glad would 
take an old-fashioned blue and white brocaded table¬ 
cloth, spread it under the trees on the soft grass, and 
arrange the banquet. Always there was a different 
menu until John marveled at the girl’s versatility. After 
luncheon she would gather up the fragments while 
John related college yarns or they talked of books and 
other kindred subjects. 

The journey back home would lead along different 
trails but almost always end at a spot near the shallow 
where the sunfish invaribly bit well. On the shore 
closest to the shallow was a height of land covered 
with virgin pine called “Indian Pillow.” Here they 
found a trysting place where they could exchange the 
numberless conceptions of life so sacred to the memory 
of lovers. 

“Peaceful waters,—down there. The fish are so 
near the top that we can almost count them,” com¬ 
mented John. 


314 


GLAD RAY 


“Yes, it is peaceful and shallow, but it wouldn’t be 
good wading there, because the bottom is rocky and 
covered with a slimy moss which is dangerous foot¬ 
ing,” Glad explained. 

“Guess you know about all there is concerning this 
country, don’t you little girl?” 

“The legends are numerous and delightful, yet many 
of the Duluth city folk have never heard about them. 
‘Indian Pillow,’ this small plateu on which we are 
resting, is one. It seems that an Indian maiden named 
Wahnee, meaning ‘hunt alone,’ named this spot the 
Indian name for ‘pillow.’ She was disappointed in 
choice of a lover whom her father had picked out for 
her. She came here, cut an artery in her wrist, and 
rested her head on the little mound over there, quietly 
suffering and bleeding to death. Along came the 
white trappers and translated the name to ‘Indian 
Pillow’.” 

“Well,—romance is everywhere,” acknowledged 
Ronning. “I guess the most honest to his convictions 
and the best Christian who ever lived was the Ameri¬ 
can Indian. The white man is responsible for his dis¬ 
honesty, I think. That the American Indian was so 
basely crucified is sufficient proof.” 

“The best Christian who ever lived is the one who 
could do and see all the good the Indian did and saw, 
and all the good any people can do or see, and live the 
Laws of God unselfishly. I know only ONE, and,— 
yes, they crucified Him too,” Glad sighed. 

“You are right. These are rather modern times to 
think of living on the Indian's principles, but they had 


GLAD RAY 


315 


an unwritten code to which they adhered with aston¬ 
ishing firmness, and it might not he so bad for many 
of our present generation to learn about the Indian 
ideals, his sense of honor and family traditions.” 

“As I have seen it, the young folk of today have 
altogether too little respect for their elders. They 
think the older men are fogies and older women quite 
ready for the crematory,” analyzed Glad Ray. 

“It all depends on the comradeship existing between 
parents and children, also the tolerance and faith of 
both toward each other.” 

“You had intelligent foster-parents. I had honest 
ones who were loyal to me. For this I am truly 
grateful.” 

John Ronning became silent and serious. He had 
not stopped to count his vacation days, and suddenly 
realized that his time in the woods would end on the 
following day. He frowned. 

“What is it all about now, Mr. Ronning?” Glad 
inquired. “Where is your usual smile? Scowls like 
that are not becoming to you.” 

The broad smile once more spread slowly over Ron- 
ning’s manly face. He could not remain serious long 
in the sunshine of his companion’s coaxing charms. 

“Tomorrow, I must go, Glad.” 

Without knowing why, Glad experienced a sense of 
suffocation and her eyes welled with tears. 

“No, no, not tomorrow,” she pleaded. Why, to¬ 
morrow is my 18th birthday.” 

“Well,—of course, that is different,” John re¬ 
sponded. “I could remain another day or two.” 


316 


GLAD RAY 


Glad was frankly pleased, and planned the little 
birthday luncheon she would serve him and the new 
trail she would lead him to where there was a turn 
in the forest called “Howl-of-the-Wolf,” named such 
because whenever the wind was sufficiently high it 
tore through the woods, at that point, like the howl 
of wolves and had frequently frightened the super¬ 
stitious Indians and the original white settlers. 

Even the birds seemed to echo the musical trill in 
Glad Ray’s laughter. They chirped and sang in 
chorus, and seemed to realize that their little wild 
woods friend was with them again. 

“Tomorrow I am going to make you a birthday of¬ 
fering,” John insisted. “You know, Glad, something 
more than ordinary friendship has come into our 
lives.” 

For an instant fear took possession of her trusting 
heart, then a sense of abiding faith that she had given 
only honesty and love so nothing but those same 
gracious attributes could be given her in return. In¬ 
tuitively this child of the pines knew that John Ron- 
ning loved her, but she had held him at a respectful 
distance because of the difference in their social posi¬ 
tions. He was a Harvard man with a career before 
him. She had once been introduced by Mrs. Anstrum, 
of Duluth, as a “nobody.” Ronning’s parents and 
her’s might have been social equals, but he had been 
more fortunate in having been adopted and educated 
by cultured people, while she had only the knowledge 
that Jack and Susan Sullivan were honest and uncul¬ 
tured. 


GLAD RAY 


317 


“My stay here at the tavern, Glad, has been of 
short duration, but in that time I have learned to love 
you. Yes, love you deeply and honestly.” 

He pressed the hand at her side but did not attempt 
to embrace her. 

“You are so splendid, John; and I appreciate such a 
wholesome love as you give to me. Please let us talk 
more about it all tomorrow. Pm—afraid it’s late— 
you know, and Aunt Susan will be angry with me.” 

“Just as you say, Glad. Then tomorrow we will 
celebrate your birthday with our last luncheon to¬ 
gether and unburden our hearts of all this glorious 
romance,—at least I hope you will, for that is my 
intention. ‘Old Indian Pillow’ will learn another se¬ 
cret tomorrow. Shall we be going?” 

About a half hour later the happy pair raced into 
the kitchen where Aunt Susan was peeling the po¬ 
tatoes,—Glad’s usual task. Before Susan had time 
to utter a protest on the late homecoming John, 
football fashion, hit the line from the rear. Grasping 
the heavy wooden chair on which Susan Sullivan was 
seated, he swung it high in the air to the utter con¬ 
sternation of the occupant. Potatoes rolled in every 
direction as the pan crashed on the floor. Speechless 
with anger Susan was depositied safe and sound on 
the floor again still seated in her chair. As Ronning 
had anticipated, her disgust had been diverted from 
Glad Ray to him. He laughed so loud and long that 
the set jawed old woman gave up with a sputter and 
when his big strong arms seized her in a loving em¬ 
brace there were tears in her eyes. 


318 


GLAD RAY 


“Why, Aunt Susan, I would not harm a hair of 
your head. I thought you needed a little shock to 
keep you from being too angry because we were 
late. Anger, you know, hurts you. People who never 
get mad live to a ripe old age while the spit-fires 
die young.” 

Ronning laughed as he led her to a big easy rocker 
on the outside porch and commanded her to sit there 
while he and Glad finished the work. This marked 
the capitulation of Aunt Susan. When Uncle Jack 
came home he found her red eyed but smiling, and as 
his rough hand touched her shoulder she petted it 
just as she did in the old days when both were young. 
It’s strange how a little Love makes the whole world 
kin. 

Late that evening Jack Sullivan reminded Susan 
that the next day was Glad’s 18th birthday. He talked 
so seriously that Aunt Susan became quite concerned. 
Glad had gone to her attic room; Ronning was pre¬ 
paring for bed; and old Jack was saying the hour had 
come when he must speak to his adopted neice. John 
Ronning was going to propose, he was quite sure, and 
before Glad gave her answer she must know the story 
of her birth. Susan didn’t quite understand, but told 
him to have his “say and have it over quick.” He 
thought she was right and stumbled up to Glad’s room. 

“Glad, I : ve seed you an Ronnin air in love and ye 
must know about yerself. Thet air iron trunk con¬ 
tained one letter thet you haint ever seed. I hed to 
keep the truth from yez to meeself until ye wuz eigh¬ 
teen. I’d ruther be shot now thin let yez read a 


GLAD RAY 


319 


letter thet ltd make the tears come, but I reckon now 
ez the toime. I certainly do love you, an wish I cud 
do differunt.” 

Glad momentarily frightened by this disclosure, ral¬ 
lied quickly. In a moment she was all smiles, ex¬ 
claiming : 

“Why, Uncle Jack, I’m ashamed of you for thinking 
anything you could do for my welfare was not for the 
best. What do I care about any extra letter that was 
in the trunk. Suppose my mother was evil, or my 
father was a thief or hanged,—what difference does it 
make, after all ? I am my own self, and you, my 
guardian, know all about me, and took me when I was 
a ragged baby and needed a home and protection. I 
guess I am good enough to live, and I just want to 
continue to be a good girl so that you will never want 
to send me away. There, Uncle Jack, don’t you bother 
about me another minute.” 

“But, Glad, I jist slipped the letter back into the 
trunk today, Uuz I seed what was happenin’ between 
you and Mr. Ronnin,’ and you must certainly read thet 
air letter tonight. Will—will you?” stammered the 
old man. 

“You’re such a good old uncle,” and she put her 
arms about his massive shoulders as she had always 
done as a child and humbly kissed the two deep fur¬ 
rows between his eyes. 

“I’m so happy tonight, Uncle Jack, I’ll promise to 
read the letter before I sleep. You go downstairs, 
dear old soul, and I will open the little iron trunk 
again and read the letter which you have replaced 


320 


GLAD RAY 


today. Thank you, Uncle Jack, for always sparing 
me. You have been so thoughtful," comforted Glad 
with tears in her voice. 

Glad always won her point, and before Uncle Jack 
had kissed her good-night he was a much happier man 
than when he entered the attic room of his niece. The 
weight of years seemed to have been lifted. He left 
his ward to once more rummage through the trunk 
and read the faded letter which he had returned to 
its sacred hiding place. 

As her uncle’s footsteps died away, Glad once more 
contemplated the treasure chest. At last she was to 
know the secret of her birth. Dear old Uncle Jack! 
How true—how kind—how unselfish he had always 
been. She recalled the many kindly deeds he had 
done for her, and resolved never to leave him until 
he no longer needed her services. For the moment 
she had almost forgotten John Ronning, the man who 
had that very afternoon told her of his love. Her 
throat became parched and her cheeks whitened. All 
the peace and joy of the world seemed transformed 
into a miserable dread and horror. For a moment 
she covered her burning eyes with her cold hands, 
rocking back and forth like one in desperation. Fear 
for the first time, had conquored the child of the 
forest. Little by little her poise mastered the situation, 
and she smiled at the needlessness of worry. Tears 
came as a relief. She slipped down from her rickety 
rocker on her bended knees where she leaned over the 
open trunk. A prayer escaped her lips as she lovingly 
laid aside some of her own baby clothes, then carefully 


GLAD RAY 


321 


lifted a bit of lace, fondled it tenderly, and later re¬ 
moved the pieces of silver, one at a time,—running the 
entire gamut of human emotions. At the bottom were 
the paintings—the work of her mother’s own hand. 
What strange fate did art play in her commonplace 
life, she wondered. Deeper and deeper she delved into 
her treasure chest where every article proved a mingled 
source of pride and pain. She realized her mother 
must have been a woman of unusual attainments. 
That was a satisfying thought. With all the precious 
gifts scattered about her, Glad Ray decided it was not 
such a bad eighteenth birthday after all. Vainly try¬ 
ing to fathom the reason for her mother’s forethought 
in packing a chest of this kind, she finally, tremblingly, 
touched the faded envelope with its dim inscription. 
Stiffened from her cramped position, she crawled back 
to the rocker. In the dim candlelight she could just 
about decipher the delicate handwriting. At last, after 
all these years of waiting, she was to know something 
concerning her own mother. Through the tenseness 
of the silence, and with a deeper love and emotion 
than she ever experienced before, Glad Ray at last 
read her mother’s letter: 

To Glad Ray, my precious, little, Love-Baby:— 

Mother is going on her wedding trip, but expects to re¬ 
turn in about ten days. Then you may come back to your 
own mother’s yearning arms, and with Mrs. Allen, we 
four will live together always. Your own papa does not 
appear to truly care for you,—you pink bundle of love, so 
mother will not darken your life by dwelling on what 
might have been. You will have a manly step-father 
when mother comes home, as pray God she may! 

I am writing this to fasten a written word of love, on the 


322 


GLAD RAY 


top tray in case anything should happen to me, that you 
may know how I loved and supported you, my precious 
baby, until the end. 

In this trunk are a few paintings which I failed to sell, 
also some family silver. Both are yours, dear; and take 
good care of them for your mother's sake. The silver 
once belonged to your maternal grandmother, a venerable 
woman. 

I will not write anything here about your birth, or my 
own proud family, because I expect to return soon; but 
should the unforeseen event take place, be convinced that 
I adore you more than life itself. Oh, my baby! My 
golden-haired baby girl! I wonder whether you will ever 
realize the depths of my love. 

You were born in the month of March, and at this date 
you are three years and two months old. For two years 
of this time I waited for your own father to show some 
genuine love for either of us. Possibly I am too young 
and unlearned to understand the type of love he gives us. 
Perhaps I do not understand life, or his ideal of it. To¬ 
day he offered to marry me after I had secretly married 
the good man with whom I am now going on my wedding 
journey. He made this offer after he knew I was aware 
of his selfishness and had felt the lash of his sarcastic 
tongue. So now, my baby, mother is taking the last des¬ 
perate step to make a home for your sweet sake. I will 
be a true and loyal wife to this man if he will only be 
loving and just to you. 

Kissing you a thousand times, I am 

Your weary, but hopeful 

MOTHER. 

Like an innocent child beaten for something it did 
not do, Glad Ray sat wide eyed, staring into space. 
She could feel the sting of the lash. Torn by con¬ 
flicting emotions, the innocent love-child received the 
cruel, full blow of the sin of her parents. Eighteen 
years had elapsed, but the hurt was bitterly fresh to 
this wild woods flower. Condemning first one, then 
the other, she suddenly verged to the other extreme, 
cursing the man-made law which forced her to be an 
outcast the rest of her life, and unjustly snatching her 


GLAD RAY 


323 


from the arms of the man she loved. Gradually she ap- 
lied some of the good philosophies she had read, to 
her own case, and thoughts of her mother and father 
commenced to assume more considerate and tender 
proportions. A waive of what she considered ‘justi¬ 
fication sw’ept over her. Why not give herself, her 
all to John Ronning? Would she not be willing to 
become his slave and serve his every whim through 
all eternity? Then without realizing from whence it 
came, an overwhelming Truth finally asserted itself, 
and Glad Ray conceived the real message that this very 
letter had saved her from, which had caused, her 
mother, father and herself their years of suffering. 
Deeply thankful to God for this timely warning, she 
leaned back in her chair at peace with the world, 
convinced that she knew between God and her there 
was Unity and Oneness, without one vestige of il- 
legitimatimacy.. .She now had the courage to spare 
the man she loved any humiliation of a possible union 
with her, whom society chose to call a bastard. 

Forgetting self, she reached her hands in suppli¬ 
cation, crying aloud: 

“OH, MOTHER! MY OWN, POOR LITTLE 
MOTHER!” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 


T HE Pike Lake Tavern household was astir at 
dawn. John Ronning was the first out in the 
open. He had passed a restless night. He was in love 
with Glad and had determined to ask her to become 
his wife. The question of her parentage had not dis¬ 
turbed him, but all through the night she seemed to be 
in danger. Usually a sound sleeper, Ronning could 
not understand why a strange foreboding of evil could 
make him toss nervously. His anxiety centered about 
Glad Ray, and when the first bird began to chirp out¬ 
side his window, he leaped out of bed, dressed hur¬ 
riedly and was pacing up and down the front veranda 
half an hour before Uncle Jack arrived on the scene. 

While John was wondering how he could convince 
Glad she should leave the Tavern and spend the time 
while he was establishing himself in a law practice 
in preparing herself as a nurse, Jack Sullivan ap¬ 
proached, bade him a cheerful good morning and took 
him by the arm for an early morning constitutional. 

"Mr. Ronnin’, I want to schpeak to you ez man to 
man,” he began. "I’m ign’rant ez the divil ez to books, 
but wize ez a owl ez to tha ways o’men. No hard 
feelin’s ?” 


GLAD RAY 


325 


“None whatever. Say what you wish while you 
have a good opportunity.” 

“Thanks. T 've seed you growin’ moighty attintive- 
loike to me sweet gel, Glad. Schure now, ez your not 
afther breakin her heart, air you?” 

“Mr. Sullivan,” and Ronning clasped the hardened 
hand of the older man, “I love Glad Ray.” 

“Yis? En your intinshuns?” 

“Are the most honorable, I assure you.” 

They had reached the split-log fence close to the 
barn, and as they paused John Ronning continued: 

“She is very easily frightened at the slightest ad¬ 
vance. However, I feel she is trusting me more and 
more each day. I have chosen today to ask her hand 
in marriage. If this step is a mistake on the part of 
either of us, then good judgment and I will forever be 
strangers.” 

“En you love ’er?” asked old Sullivan, earnestly. 

“With all my heart,” was the positive reply. 

“Thet ez whut worried me heaps, ez I c’d see thet 
Glad wuz a lovin’ you ez sure ez she was bornd. She 
ez too honest to know how ez to kape thim things a 
secret. She ez too proud o’ her love to lie about it.” 

“I wish your consent to tell her how I feel toward 
her, and to ask her to become my wife. That is the 
object of my request for a walk today.” 

Tears filled the rough old man’s eyes. 

“Bioy, I couldn’t give her freely to innybuddy. She 
ez tha sunshine o’ me life. But, ez I wuz a sayin’, I 
kin see thet she loves you,—so if she’ll take you, thin 
it’s her own happiness I’ve alius fought fer. The good 


326 


GLAD RAY 


Lord nivver give me no other childern, but Glad Ray 
hez bin a ’hole orfint’s home o’ sunbeams tuh me.” 
The woodsman looked wistfully toward the glowing 
eastern sky. Both men remained silent drinking in the 
beauty of the glorious sunrise. 

“The perfect begining of a new day,” mused John. 

Sullivan asked the younger man to wait where he 
was for a minute while he turned back to the house. 
Glad Ray was in the kitchen with her Aunt Susan, and 
the foster Uncle had little difficulty in going softly to 
Glad’s room where he found the faded letter. Once 
more he had determined to spare his “wild flower” a 
confession to the man she loved. Before Ronning re¬ 
alized that his companion had gone old Sullivan was 
by his side again. 

“My bioy, before ye schpeak to Glad, read this,” he 
handed over the faded missive. 

Ronning scanned the contents quickly, and then met 
squarely the saddened eyes of the woodsman. 

“Ye don’t care?” the old man questioned. “My bioy, 
I knowed ye wuz a man thru en thru.” 

They shook hands and there was a suggestion of 
tears in the eyes of both as together they walked to¬ 
ward the Tavern. 

“I dint want Glad to hev to tell ye. Bless ye, bioy.” 

Slightly pale though radiant in a new beauty born 
of a determination to refuse her lover if her birth 
would be a sorrow to him, Glad greeted both men 
happily, and they in turn extended birthday greetings. 
Despite the tenseness of the situation everything passed 
along pleasantly during breakfast. Aunt Susan, too, 


327 


GLAD RAY 

was unusually gentle and relieved Glad of the many 
morning tasks so her niece and Ronning might have 
an early start on their last hike through the pine woods. 
This was Susan’s birthday gift to Glad, and the latter 
threw her arms about the old woman saying: 

“Thank you, Aunt Susan, you don’t know how 
happy I am that you want me to take this farewell 
walk with Mr. Ronning.” 

“Well, put on ye’re pertty pink dress, and ye will 
lokk loik a angel, I jist bet.” There was a suspicion 
of tears in her eyes as she tried to respond to the girl’s 
impulsive advances. 

Glad also kissed her faithful Uncle Jack on the two 
deep furrows between his eyes and thanked him for his 
unselfish, loving greeting. It never occurred to this 
child of the forest, that birthday gifts were frequently 
material ones. Consideration and Love were the great¬ 
est gifts of all to Glad Ray. 

After breakfast John and Glad took the three mile, 
short route to “Indian Pillow,” deciding to return to 
the Tavern by way of “Howl-of-the-wolf” about sun¬ 
set. They were weary when they reached the “Pil¬ 
low,” and eager to spread the cotton brocaded table 
cloth on the soft grass and serve the feast of fried 
chicken, salad, sandwiches, chocolate cake and straw¬ 
berry soda. 

From one topic to another, the conversation gradu¬ 
ally drifted to Glad Ray’s future. 

“Would you care to go to Louisville and train to be 
a nurse, no matter whether you found it necessary to 
use it as a means of livelihood, or not, in future years ?” 


328 


GLAD RAY 


“Yes, yes indeed! I have always longed to nurse 
the sick.” Her enthusiasm suddenly changed and the 
color faded from her cheeks. “But I only make a dol¬ 
lar a week, so I haven’t either the clothes or railroad 
fare.” 

“Dear, innocent Glad! Your Uncle has warned you 
against strangers, so I am wondering how much faith 
you could have in me.” 

“Yes, he has forbidden me to associate with every 
man I have met at the Tavern except you. Some way, 
even critical Aunt Susan says you appear quite ‘self- 
respectin’.” They both laughed. 

“If I told you that in all my experience with society 
girls, college girls and girls of many classes, never one 
—no, not a single one—has taken such a grip on my 
whole being as you have, would you believe me?” 

Slowly Glad raised her fringe lashes, and with her 
large velvety brown eyes gazed into the very depths of 
his soul. A tender but serious smile lingered about 
the corners of her full lips. She quite forgot her 
resolution to give up her lover. 

“I knew that, John, before you said it. It is good to 
hear it, just the same. What else have you to say 
about your feelings toward me?” The embarassment 
of other days had vanished. Freely and simply she 
questioned his attitude. 

“You wish to hear the truth, darling, and I am anx¬ 
ious to reveal it,” he began. 

“I know what you are going to say from the innate 
visitation of your soul unto mine; but I need to hear 
the mortal you explain it all. There is no music sweet- 


GLAD RAY 


329 


er, and no words dearer than those you are going to 
say to me.” 

“Glad! My darling! How different from other 
women you are! How wonderfully different! I love 
you! Yes, darling, vastly more than that, I worship 
you and want you for my wife!” He took both of her 
hands within his. “Oh, Glad Ray, if words could tell 
it all,—but they fail me. I love you! I love you!” 
For a moment there was silence, then the man kissed 
the girl's finger tips as he resumed: “Was that what 
you expected to hear, dear?” 

“Yes, John. Something indescribably wonderful 
within my soul seemed to transmit that truth to me 
many times in the quiet of the night. I knew you loved 
me above all women. I fully understood your attitude 
because it is the reflection of my own. It is Truth 

“Do you love me and trust me? Do you want to be 
my wife? Tell me, Glad.” 

“I can’t tell you until you answer a question of mine. 
Do recall, John, in my dear mother’s letter to me, 
which Uncle Jack said he let you read this morning, 
that she acknowledged I AM ONLY AN ILLEGITI¬ 
MATE CHILD?” 

“Yes, Glad, I remember reading that part. It is the 
lazv of man which brands you as an illegitimate off¬ 
spring. According to your own ideas, and our mutual 
acceptance of Divine Right, there is no illegitimacy in 
reality. There is but the ONENESS WITH GOD. 
You were begotten in the manifestation and Creative 
Genius of His Wisdom. The mortal or material 
bodies of your parents count only as clay or illusive 


330 


GLAD RAY 


instruments. God, or the Divine Creator, is ALL. 
Dear little Lamb, at the moment of your mother’s 
sacred conception for you, I believe the love between 
your mother and father was filled with the Linder- 
standing of Divine L T nfoldment and the Oneness of 
Being. At least, you were begotten in the Wisdom, 
Magnitude and Understanding of the Creators Judg¬ 
ment. Besides, we have quite satisfied ourselves that 
mere flesh, as we materially see it, is MATTER. And 
flesh or matter in itself, being devoid of power, is not 
INTELLIGENCE. Therefore, mere flesh or matter 
cannot CREATE anything. Flowers, trees, birds, 
fishes, like ourselves, are likewise matter, and cannot 
CREATE their kind. Humans, birds, animals and 
fishes may construct, but none may create even so 
much as an atom. Intonation, as we hear it with 
our material senses, is not the Creator of sound or 
melody. Finally, man is not the creator of man. 
Just as Jesus multiplied the loaves and fishes, so He 
(known as God, Principle, Creative Intelligence, Di¬ 
vine Mind or any other respectful cognomen) has mul¬ 
tiplied the beings of the earth, and THROUGH and 
OF the same Wise and Divine Source. So you, 
dearest Love, are your Heavenly Father s child; —HIS 
LEGITIMATE and PERFECT IDEA. You have 
unconsciously been His little messenger; and no doubt 
it was the intention of God that we should first ex¬ 
perience, then learn, then realize this peaceful, restful 
satisfying truth, and when mutually helpful, to be 
brought into social contact and, lastly, united always. 
Mysterious as your coming may appear to you, you 


GLAD RAY 


331 


have a superior mission in life just as I,—as every 
man and woman has a mission. In the perfect full¬ 
ness of time you will carry out the Will of God as was 
His Desire at the very beginning/’ 

“Then I am not a disgrace being born out of wed¬ 
lock ?” 

“You are an example of the mystery of Divine Will, 
—God’s creative and Perfect Conception, with a golden 
opportunity to convince the narrow element, and hypo¬ 
critical society, that though you are not accountable 
for your coming, you ARE accountable for the man¬ 
ner of your living ; and that while yon are living and 
serving the God-Good-In-Everything, they are wasting 
priceless energy in criticism and catering to material, 
empty illusiveness and snobbish hypocrisy.” 

“Oh, John, it is glorious to know you feel that way.” 

“I would be a pin-headed worm of the dust were I 
imbued with the temerity sufficient to condemn the 
Wisdom and Intelligence of the Creator . Should I 
ever swerve from the courage of my convictions, your 
smiling face, love, truth and happiness will adjust mat¬ 
ters materially.” 

“Will you assist me like that too?” 

“You and I are one. We have the same joys, same 
hopes, same faith, same tastes and the same willing¬ 
ness to endure and progress through the labors of love. 
We know mortally that neither one is beyond improve¬ 
ment; but we also realize that from the beginning as 
well as throughout Eternity we are SPIRITUALLY 
Created in his image, and of course we know that 
God is Perfect . I can demand nothing,—absolutely 


332 


GLAD RAY 


nothing of your mortal self that I cannot and do not 
freely bestow unto you. Without this sublime under¬ 
standing we could never be happy. Do you grasp the 
difference between the material and spiritual explan¬ 
ations? 

“Indeed, I do. Life would be so harmonious were 
everyone to believe that way. But surely you do not 
think it was right for my mother and father to live 
together in the flesh, before at least a civil service was 
performed.” 

“Toward generalities it appears to be a crime. To¬ 
ward man-made laws and social customs it IS criminal 
and material disobedience and also was a material 
crime with your parents. Man-made laws and social 
restrictions are absolutely necessary for this age and 
generation, and possibly another, before Spiritual In¬ 
telligence forces the masses , through self-respect, edu¬ 
cation and innate culture, into doing the honorable, 
correct and unselfish thing at the psychological mo¬ 
ment of test, not because it is the civil and material 
law but BECAUSE) IT IS THE HONORABLE AND 
RIGHT THING TO DO. CONTROL and UN¬ 
SELFISHNESS are OF Divine Spirit, and it should 
be joy to manifest these noble attributes. As to the 
REASON, or CAUSE or RESULT of your parent’s 
impulses that is another matter, and has nothing to do 
with us or the present in any way. We do not know; 
we dare not judge; we can and must leave the prob¬ 
lems of others to Divine Wisdom. Not daring 
to cast stones at society because I am a material mem¬ 
ber of this mortal clan,—I would certainly never offer 


GLAD RAY 


333 


advice on the intricate problems and mysteries or pur¬ 
poses of the Creative Genius or God. Whether you 
were born in or out of wedlock, does not change the 
fact that only our Lord, God, CREATED THE MAN¬ 
NER OF BEING, which makes it a manifestation of 
His Wisdom. Anything that is of God, and born 
through the mystery and Intelligence of God, CAN¬ 
NOT be born in crime or error; and being born 
through the Will of God is being born in His Spiritual 
ImageA 

“Then I am born by the Will of God?” asked Glad, 
eager for every particle of Spiritual information. 

“Yes, and born in His Likeness and Image too. You 
are God’s Creation,—His Perfect Idea. The immor¬ 
tal you is of God, just as all Creation is a manifes¬ 
tation of His Wisdom,—of His Superb Intelligence, 
therefore of God.” 

“Perhaps .you should have been a minister, John.” 

“No, Lamb; had I chosen the ministry I would have 
been bound down by more man-made creeds. There 
are neither creeds nor cults in Universal Intelligence. 
Universal Intelligence is without limitation. Fixed 
creeds and unelastic, unprogressive church doctrines 
are of limited, man-conceived ideals, and are fre¬ 
quently selfish motives for personal gain.” 

“Where did you learn all these things?” 

“By the time a man reaches the age of thirty he has 
generally chosen his calling in life; has studied not 
only his preferred vocation, but many of the masters 
leading to broader and greater advancement. He has 
at least started to unblind his eyes to the tremendous 


334 


GLAD RAY 


and scientific question of LIVING. During recent 
years, at Harvard and since, I have reached out for all 
the knowledge I could grasp. Every hour hereafter I 
wish to add not only to my education and ideals, but I 
desire to assist those with whom I come in contact, to 
see the Truth in and through the Oneness with God, 
the ONE AND ONLY CREATOR. With you by my 
side I want to realize the ideal, and idealize the real.” 

“This is like a gift from God to hear from your lips 
the perfect Truths just as I also believe them.” 

“Your belief is what first caused me to see in you 
the mate I have dreamed some day would be mine.” 

“But, John, I am so unlearned concerning subjects 
of the day.” 

“You are not unlearned when it comes to being a 
loyal, truthful woman. You are free from affectation, 
superstition, tradition and deceit. That has made you 
more beautiful to me than all the physical charms and 
college degrees could possibly have done.” 

“You are about twelve years older than I am, and 
have such splendid education, yet you love me,—a girl 
of the pine woods, whose surroundings have been so 
commonplace all her life? Are you positive you love 
me above all women, John?” 

“May I seal my adoration for the most wonderful 
and beautiful woman I have ever known?” 

Without hesitation the unkissed lips of the woman 
were offered to the man. The kiss was long and per¬ 
fect in its divine passion; and though the touch was 
exquisitely gentle and tender, the depth of that kiss 


GLAD RAY 


335 


was an exalting - penetration unto the innermost re¬ 
cesses of their beings. 

I knew my first kiss would be like that,” she cried 
joyfully. “All our kisses will be perfect and filled 
with the gift of understanding.” 

“How did you know you would kiss that way, when 
you have never kissed any man, excepting your Uncle 
Jack?’ John Ronning held his prize close to him. 

“Now I suppose you will laugh at me,—but here 
it goes: I just pictured it all out in secret from the 
hour my mind was made up about loving you. I just 
had to kiss you; and could taste your kisses; and had 
to have you for mine all the years to come.” Glad 
Ray laughed merrily as she ceased her honest confes¬ 
sion. “If I had hesitated an instant I would have been 
ashamed to tell you all that. But, anyway, to whisper 
the sweet secrets of my soul to you, John, will make 
the hour seem all the more perfect.” 

“So you wanted to kiss me, you precious Lamb?” 

“So dreadfully, that I thought you took an awfully 
long time about it now.” 

They both laughed heartily and repeated the caress. 
After the feast of love, Glad Ray again resumed her 
confession: 

“I just kept telling myself to be patient, as all the 
love I felt for you couldn’t help but rebound and give 
from you to me the demonstration I craved. I knew 
there would have to be a banquet of kisses for me 
some day. John, dear, I even tried to imagine the 
delicious taste of your lips, and the glory of my soul 
as I experienced the mingling of your love with mine. 


336 


GLAD RAY 


Oh, those dreams did not hurt me; they encouraged 
me to live as perfectly as possible just for you.” 

“My own! My wonderful Glad Ray! How is it 
that a beast such as I am, can be blessed with a love 
and life like yours? You innocent Lamb! You inno¬ 
cent Lamb!”. He closed his eyes in sincere intensity 
as he rested Glad’s cheek against his, and drew her 
closer to him. “There are no words to express my joy, 
and none sufficiently clear to make the depth of my 
love plain to you. I ADORE YOU! I ADORE 
YOU! You beautiful Glad Ray!” 

“When did you begin to love me?” she questioned 
guilelessly. 

“From the instant I raised my eyes and met yours, 
the morning you offered me the additional egg; while 
you arranged the cherry blossoms; and when I listened 
to your sweet voice I realized the love dart had per¬ 
manently penetrated my heart.” 

“If you love me so much how can you leave me? 
You said you were going South next Monday.” 

“The sooner I go, darling, the sooner I can make a 
cozy home for you.” 

“If I were studying nursing, wouldn’t it be just 
glorious for both of us? We would never grow lone¬ 
some, as I surely will, all alone up here in the woods.” 
She traced the outline of the figure on his necktie 
with her forefinger. 

“How would you like to be married before I leave, 
and go with me?” He drew the tantalizing slender 
finger from under his chin to his lips, where he pre¬ 
tended to bite it, then kiss it by turns. 


GLAD RAY 


337 


“Really, do you wish to be married before you 
leave, and to take me with you?” 

“Do I? With all my heart! Will you, dear?” 

“Will I? Glorious!” Glad Ray clapped her hands 
with unconcealed happiness. 

“You will not live with me though, nor tell others 
of our marriage, but attend school and study, while I 
work hard to establish a law practice, and build a home 
for you to be completed by the time you have finished 
your course. Can you do all that, Lamb,—silently?” 

“I can do anything, John, that is for our future 
good.” 

“This has been one memorable day. We have ex¬ 
changed views on most every topic. We started out in 
doubt and our future is all planned now. My 
watch says fifteen minutes before three, so I think we 
had better begin the return journey back to the Tav¬ 
ern by way of ‘Howl-of-the-wolf’ before the sun gets 
lower, then Uncle Jack can call up the minister in 
Dultuh. He can bring out the license, and everything 
can be properly arranged by tomorrow.” 

A look of disappointment passed over Glad Ray’s 
beautiful features. Her eyes filled with tears. 

“What is it, darling? Are you not pleased to go 
with me?” 

“Indeed, yes,—but poor Uncle Jack! How he will 
miss me!” 

“I know,—but at some future time he would have to 
give you up to me anyway, so it had better be when 
he has fewer hours to dwell on his loss. Don’t cry, 
darling. Let me kiss those soft, red lips back to their 


338 


GLAD RAY 


natural shape. There,—that is just like my brave, little 
Lamb.” 

“John, dear, I love you more than I can explain.” 

“About half as much as I love you,” and he kissed 
away a stray tear. “Shall we start now, Glad, and 
share our joy with him?” 

“Yes; it is all so wonderful.” 

“Oh, Lamb! My own Glad Ray! This is Heaven !” 

Hand in hand they strolled over to “Howl-of-the- 
wolf,” then back to the Tavern where they found Jack 
Sullivan meekly filling the kitchen woodbox, and Su- 
son fussing over the uncooked “taters.” 

“Bin a fishin’ all this time, eh?” was Susan’s greet¬ 
ing. 

“Yes,” answered John Ronning. “We were fishing 
for happiness, and caught it!” 

“Humph! I kinder ’spected tha likes o’ thet.” 
Turning to her patient partner, she added: “Hurry, 
you oF poke. Tha taters need ter fry, en tha kittle 
haint a’biled yit.” 


CHAPTER XXIV 


\a 7HILR the preparations for supper were going 
^ merrily on, a letter was handed John Ron- 
ning, which added greatly to his happiness, and which 
he passed on to Jack Sullivan to read: 


“Brush Ranch, 
Colorado. 

“My Boy—Our Boy:— 

Your dear, frank letter came to gladden our hearts yes¬ 
terday. There was a chance for us to be depressed be¬ 
cause our splendid, big boy had found another love in life. 
But we don’t intend to let that change our hearts a bit, 
only to make additional room for the ‘wildwood flower’ 
just as we took in our John years ago. 

Marry her, dear, before you go South, if you intend to 
take her with you at all. Not but what our boy and girl 
would live a life of honor, but give no one a chance to say 
Glad Ray is other than the perfect blossom you have 
found her. Protect her, dear, as you would your life, and 
give her our name and blessing. 

Should you need more funds than those we gave you, 
you may borrow from Daddy the required amount. We 
feel you will start in with consistent economy, and trust 
you implicitly. 

On the enclosed card is the name of the Training 
School for urses, also two former Directors’ names. 
They were intimate friends of my father, and I knew 
them quite well. 

Under separate cover I am sending you the dear old 
wedding ring to use in making Glad Ray your wife. 
Mother Ronning wore this ring first, then your Daddy 
slipped it on my finger, and now you may have it, after¬ 
ward to pass along the golden heirloom to your oldest 
child. 


i 


339 


340 


GLAD RAY 


Goodbye, our boy. God bless you both! With fondest 

love and best wishes, I am always 

Your own loyal 

“Mother Betty.” 

P. S. Your Daddy extends his congratulations, and re¬ 
peats financial offer.” 

• 

“Looks like ye got a cleen aleeby, John,” smiled the 
old man. “Haint got no hitch nowhars.” 

The meal that followed was the happiest one served 
in Pike Lake Tavern for many years. After the ex¬ 
citement had subsided and the news had been breezed 
about that there was going to be a wedding on the 
morrow, the announcement kept Uncle Jack busy in 
the bar room, and gave Glad and John an oppor¬ 
tunity to stroll in the moonlight and whisper sweet 
confidences. 

Early the following morning the Tavern was a 
scene of unusual activity. Throughout the day there 
were hugh branches of pines, maples and oaks mingled 
with clusters of fragrant wild flowers arranged in an 
artistic manner on tables and shelves. The old home¬ 
stead assumed an air of celebration befitting the oc¬ 
casion. 

About noon Glad vanished to her little attic bed¬ 
room to dress for the greatest event of her life. 
Susan, too, had put on, over her black alpaca dress, 
a special white apron trimmed in handmade lace. 
Jack had brushed his old suit, slipped off his heavy 
work shoes, and suffered his feet to be encased in his 
Sunday best. 

About two o’clock in the afternoon old Sullivan, in 
his sonorous voice, was heard to exclaim: 


GLAD RAY 


341 


Tha minister ez a’waitin’ en tha dinin’ room. 
Whar ez tha 'bride’?” 

"She ez buttonin tha shooze you giv’ ’er fer a wid- 
din prizzint.” Aunt Susan’s voice was decidedly more 
gentle than usual. 

"Oh, Lamb, are you almost ready?” called John 
Ronning, proud of the love term he originated for 
Glad Ray. 

"Almost ready,” came the sweet voice. "I am tak¬ 
ing a final peek at my mother’s letter. 

After a few moments the bride appeared in the 
dinning room doorway. 

"Aren’t my shoes pretty, John?” Glad Ray danced 
around in her new dark blue serge dress which Aunt 
Susan had sent to Duluth for, and exhibited her 
slender feet in the neatest shoes she had possessed 
in years. 

"Yes, Lamb, your shoes are lovely and sensible. 
What is the matter with Mr. Sullivan?” 

The old man was bending over a window flower- 
box, puffing violently on his strong pipe, while tears 
were falling like rain upon the geraniums from which 
he was pretending to pick dried leaves. 

"Uncle, Uncle, please don’t feel so badly; I will 
come home every summer to see you.” 

All three made a pretense at smiling. 

Aunt Susan was talking to the minister, and dust¬ 
ing around at the same time. 

"Ppeers tuh me, Susan, you moight put yer dust 
rag away fer a while—leastwayz while tha weddin’ goes 


342 


GLAD RAY 


on.” A cloud of grey tobacco smoke escaped old 
Sullivan’s lips. 

“Mind yer knitten’. Shtop yer shmokin,’ Put tha 
bird en tha bar, else it’ll sing ez shure ez fate, ef tha 
gal es en here. Lit’s git shatrted fer tha coffee’ll be 
thet cowld we kin’t dthrink it; ’sides, I set me heart on 
fixin’ a foine weddin’ dinner.” Susan motioned every 
one, including the minister, to the precise spot she 
thought each should occupy during the ceremony. 

“Born ruler, by gol ding!” Frank Sullivan man¬ 
aged to laugh at the dictatorial manner of his wife. 

“Nivver you moind, I managed tuh kape you 
shtraight all thim thar years, so I did.” Susan nod¬ 
ded to the minister to begin. “Now, Misther Preacher, 
you may ez well shtart.” Her thin lips resumed their 
compressed shape as she finished the command. 

The beautiful bride laid her hand trustingly in that 
of the groom. When either of them was asked a 
question, the other invariably looked into the eyes 
of the one answering. The marriage service was 
short but impressive. To the old folks it caused 
the years gone by to roll before memory’s eye, filling 
Jack Sullivan with forgiveness, and softening Susan’s 
heart. 

“Wall, I reckin et’s proper, accordin’ tuh Glad’s new 
fangled books, tuh kiss tha bride, but I haint a ’goin’ 
tuh do et. I’m a goin’ tuh kiss muh ol’ man. I 
haint a kissed him fer nigh goin’ on tin year ’n now 
he desarves et.” With that Susan marched over and 
pecked once or twice at her husband’s lips, and patted 
his broad shoulders as she added: “ ’taint no use tuh 


GLAD RAY 


343 


cry, Tack, ’cause the gel wants tuh git a chance en 
tha wourld. She ez a good gel, en we must sind ’er 
orf ez happy ez we kin. I’ll miss ’er too, shure ’n I 
will.” The old man took Susan’s wrinkled hand and 
shook it gratefully for an instant, then together they 
walked over to the newly wedded pair, and each man¬ 
aged to offer a sincere blessing. 

As the minister was about to climb into his buggy 
to drive back to Duluth, John and Glad followed him 
outside and the groom handed him a crisp new twenty 
dollar bill. It was more than the pastor was accus¬ 
tomed to receive, and vastly more than he had expected 
at the Tavern. 

“Thank you,—thank you.” 

“Not at all; am only too glad to give it to you. 
The little wife is worth millions of those,” and John 
drew his bride to his side. Aunt Susan’s voice broke 
the tranquility of the situation: 

“Wall, ef yous two y’ung 'uns ez thinkin’ o’ shtartin’ 
fer Duluth tuh-night, hustle in yer, en injiy tha wed- 
din’ meal!” 

“In just a moment, Aunt Susan,” replied John, with 
a roguish twinkle in his eye, as the old woman re¬ 
treated into the dinning room, shaking her fist at the 
groom, but with a smile on her lips. 

“John, dear, we are now truly married, aren’t we?” 

“Yes, my precious Lamb, we are. We can now 
live our lives as we see fit.” 

“You seem so much older than you are, dear. Your 
dear ‘Mother Betty’ must have had a wonderful in- 


344 


GLAD RAY 


fluence over you.” The beautiful bride looked admir¬ 
ingly at the plain Roman gold wedding ring. 

“She was and is a blessed woman, Lamb, Her 
kind face is somewhat prematurely lined from hours 
of loneliness and the exertion of caring for Dad’s aged 
mother, who lost her mind about five years before 
she died. There were no children born to my foster 
parents, and that is why they took mercy on me as 
an orphan lad and gave me home, love and education.” 

“What do you remember of your own mother?" 

“Just that I have an undying love for her sweet 
memory. She was older than Mother Betty, and I 
was rather young to appreciate her sacrifices. For 
my foster parents there is a profound reverence and 
affection which one might feel toward chosen dis¬ 
ciples who serve as messengers of salvation and ex¬ 
amples of loving-kindness. They broke me of many 
faults, and instilled into me by untiring patience, the 
self respect of a man. You will love them, too, I am 
certain.” 

“How proud they must be of you, John.” 

“No more proud than they will be of you, my won¬ 
derful Lamb-of-Love.” 

Shall we go now and partake of Aunt Susan’s 
feast? Glad Ray looked more attractive than ever 
since she had on becoming shoes and gown. 

“Yes, little wife," and together they reentered the 
dining room where, spread before them was such a 
repast as Glad Ray never had seen. Susan and Jack 
were seated at the head and foot of the long table, 


GLAD RAY 


345 


with the two sides appropriately decorated for the 
bride and groom. 

“I made iverythink before yer eyes.” Susan tilted 
her head proudly. 

“I shure don’t ’spec you ter git married agin, so 
bein’ ez you air all we lied, en you bed no mither tuh 
do et fer you, we sez ez Jack en I brung you up ez 
best we could, et ’d be a fittin’ endin’ ef we give you 
an extree good weddin’ meal.” 

Jack Sullivan rose slowly from his seat, and hand¬ 
ing Glad Ray several official looking papers with many 
seals on them, began to speak: 

“Gel, we both hed a diffr’nt way o’ showin’ our 
love; but Susan yer, en I’ sez thet you air to hev all 
we got whin we cash in.” With these crude remarks 
from his true heart, the old man resumed his seat, 
with tear-dimmed eyes. 

“Yis,” chimed in Susan, “we both hed odd ways o’ 
doin’ things, but I knowed we brung you up ter be a 
good gel, innyway. Yuhr not that koind o’ gel tuh 
want us to doie ’fore our toime. Now I jes reckin 
John Ronnin, ’ll know you hev a home o’ yuhr own 
sich ex et ez. That ez four hundred acres o’ high 
land, en sixty acres o’ low, ’roun’ tha Lake. Et ez 
worth ’bout fifteen thousand dollars.” 

Glad bowed her face in her hands and tears trickled 
between her fingers as she endeavored to control her 
emotion. 

“Thar, thar, gel, cheer up. This haint no funeral 
We haint dead ez yit!"’ Sullivan blew his nose ener¬ 
getically which indicated that tears and a cold had 


346 


GLAD RAY 


become too familiar. Finally Glad, after heroic effort 
at control, spoke up sweetly: 

“Uncle Jack and Aunt Susan, I can't thank you 
enough for all you have done for me. The fact that 
you took me in, a dirtv-faced, motherless baby, when 
1 had no place to go on the face of the earth, was the 
most sublime act I can conceive. And,—and,—giving 
me your home ,—the home you both slaved for,—is 
too much.” 

“Tut, tut, gel; we haint gone yit. You won’t git 
this yer house ’til we doie; thin et’s yuhrn fer kapes.” 

“Pray God, you outlive me," came the earnest re¬ 
sponse. 

John Ronning assured the old folks that he would 
place the deed in a vault for his wife, and thanked 
them sincerely for protecting the ‘wildwood flower’ all 
these years in the pine forests. 

“Little wife, the Southland calls us. I can’t go 
alone you know,—simply have to take my Lamb along. 
Shall we hurry, as it is growing late and nearing train 
time?” 

“Yes, John; and we have many miles to go before 
we catch the night train out of Duluth; also our bag¬ 
gage to check,” she acquiesced. 

“Well, then, here’s to love and happiness for every¬ 
one,” and John lifted a glass of cider to his bride. 

The bride arose; a beautiful smile mingled with her 
tears as with faltering voice she responded: “Thank 
you, John; and may God be with us all, until we four 
meet again.” 

“Amen, my ‘sunshine gel’,” bravely answered the 
old man. 


CHAPTER XXV. 


J OHN Ronning decided to settle permanently in 
Louisville. It was a simple matter for the two 
strangers in the strange city to maintain their indi¬ 
vidual identity without the world knowing of their 
marriage in the north woods. With the one thousand 
dollars John had received as a graduation present he 
was able to establish himself in suitable offices and 
begin making friends. Industrious and frugal, he kept 
Glad well clothed and kept up a good appearance. At 
the end of three years Ronning was fairly well estab¬ 
lished in his practice and his name was familiar to the 
newspaper reading public. The winning of his third 
and much talked about case brought an astounding fee 
and he was appointed immediately afterward as chief 
counsel for one of the largest merchantile houses in 
Louisville. The salary was large and the position 
brought him in contact with leading business men who 
soon learned to appreciate his frankness and honesty. 

After four years Ronning, without consulting Glad 
Ray, purchased an old fashioned homestead which had 
been unoccupied for some time and quite dilapidated. 
The weather-beaten structure was remodeled and with 
new blinds, fresh paint inside and out, and the services 
of a landscape gardner, the several acres began to take 
on the appearance of a well-preserved Southern estate. 

347 


348 


GLAD RAY 


The various renters in the past twenty years had been 
careless, but now the young attorney was creating an 
ideal home for his beautiful wife. It was not to be 
seen by her until he could present the deed on the night 
of her graduation. He had ordered an interior decor¬ 
ator to completely furnish the home which had been 
called of late years, “The Cedars.” 

Ronning was pleased with Glad Ray’s earnestness in 
her work, and the reputation she was making in the 
hospital as one of the most reliable nurses they had 
ever enrolled. While strolling through the park dur¬ 
ing one of her two-hour leaves of absence, John told 
Glad he had a home already for her and they could 
move into it the night she graduated. The grateful 
girl was almost hysterical with joy. Uncle Jack and 
Aunt Susan were coming too for the graduating ex¬ 
ercises, and could share the first night in the new home 
with the young folks. 

Glad Ray had been “specialed” as nurse on some 
very important operative cases, coming through with 
an enviable record for endurance and sense of respon¬ 
sibility. The head surgeons, Doctors Murry and ITal- 
laway, vied with each other to secure the services of 
their favorite nurse. She not only won the admiration 
of these men on account of her unusual beauty, but 
commanded the respect such superior minds would 
naturally feel toward a refined and capable woman. 

Doctor Hallaway, whose name was known over the 
entire South as an eminent specialist in diseases of the 
eye, ear, nose and throat, and whose untiring skill had 
made the sight and health of many a discouraged man, 


GLAD RAY 


349 


woman and child as good as new, took particular in¬ 
terest in the career of Glad Ray. He directed her with 
the same consideration he showed the most respected 
of his wealthy patients, and in no way interfered with 
the mutual significance which first brought them to¬ 
gether as surgeon and nurse. He had never suspected 
her identity. 

After the strain had passed under which the Doctor 
had labored during his efforts to gain en education, 
and he settled down to his professional work, there 
came upon him the natural result of his years of un¬ 
ceasing struggle to resist temptation and to live a life 
of unselfish citizenship. He became wholly absorbed 
in his profession and the unlimited good he could do. 
The gentler sex played an insignificant part in his life. 
Except from the painful memories he secretly harbored 
over the loss of his child and the beautiful woman on 
whom he always looked as his wife,—there were no 
moments given to romance. 

Doctor Hallaway found a profound satisfaction in 
his practice, when husband and wife appealed to him 
for mental redress or comfort. He quickly perceived 
the folly of domestic discord. His psychological pow¬ 
ers were keenly developed and as judiciously exercised, 
as was his dexterous skill with the surgeon’s knife. 
Many grown-ups breathe a whole lifetime without hav¬ 
ing lived one commendable hour; but Raymond Hal¬ 
laway had breathed, lived, suffered and learned. He 
had acquired the art of allowing others to live, and of 
giving as well as receiving. With his endurance, ex¬ 
perience and silence, he had given to his personality 


350 


GLAD RAY 


< 


that touch of eloquence and wisdom which begets trust 
and retains friendship. He was known over the great¬ 
er portion of the South as one of the most conscien¬ 
tious surgeons and ethical men in his chosen pro¬ 
fession. 

Although living in the same town through all the 
years Doctor Hallaway knew nothing of the presence 
of the woman he still loved. Gladys Longworth 
Breckenridge, of late years in most delicate health, had 
been confined to her bed much of the time. She had 
heard, without comment concerning the rise of her 
one time lover, but had retained Doctor Abner T. 
Harper, as her personal physician, and recently this 
capable man had been in almost daily attendance in 
an effort to build her up previous to an operation. 

“For a few weeks, Mrs. Breckenridge, I am going 
to limit your charity work,” Doctor Harper said. 
“This is not only a vital operation on your eyes but 
a condition that calls for the complete building up of 
your system.” 

“Just as you say, Doctor Harper. I know you will 
do what is best for me physically and mentally. Oh, 
Doctor, if I could only see! If I could only see!” 
Gladys moaned, as she resigned herself to the physi¬ 
cian’s instructions. “Is there any hope that I shall ever 
see ?” 

“I don’t want to raise your hopes too high, my dear 
Mrs. Breckenridge, but I’m going to have Doctor 
Murry of the — Hospital, consult with me tomorrow 
morning, as he is one of our two most capable special- 


GLAD RAY 


351 


ists on the eye. In my judgment, there is reason, at 
least, to look with favor on the operation.” 

Gladys smiled sadly. 

“Will it hurt much?” she asked humanly. 

“You will be under an anaesthetic, Mrs. Brecken- 
ridge with every service possible.” 

“Yes, I know,” she sighed, “and when the operation 
is over,—possibly,—possibly I can at least distinguish 
objects ?” 

“We will do our best,—our very best for you,” the 
Doctor replied evasively. “Doctor Murry will call 
with me here tomorrow morning, and I will also bring 
a competent nurse. 

The following morning, Doctors Murry and Har¬ 
per made a thorough examination of Mrs. Brecken- 
ridge’s state of health and blindness, after which they 
adjourned to another room. 

“It looks rather dubious to me, Doctor Harper, as to 
complete restoration of the sight. However, if you 
will put one of my ‘special’ nurses on this case, who 
is accustomed to administer treatments under me and 
apply dressings of this kind, in place of the general 
nurse you have brought along this morning, I will per¬ 
form the operation. Should we fail,—well, we’ve done 
our best.” 

“Suit yourself, Doctor Murry. I wish my patient to 
have her sight restored if within the realm of possi¬ 
bility. She is a remarkable woman and is doing an im¬ 
mense amount of good. There is a sad story hidden in 


352 


GLAD RAY 


her busy life, but so far I’ve been unable to penetrate 
the veil of secrecy.” 

“There may be a sad story, but there is an unusual 
beauty and intelligence which one does not have to 
‘penetrate,’ ” returned Doctor Murry. 

“I’ve always known that, Doctor, and shouldn’t won¬ 
der if her beauty and intelligence had something in 
common with her sorrow; but as I said, she has not 
confided in me.” 

“No need of it, Doctor. We will get at those eyes 
when we have her general health toned up,—and all 
we can do is to hope,” said Doctor Murry encour¬ 
agingly. 

“Regarding a surgical nurse,—will you send one 
over in the morning?” asked the attending physician. 

“No,” responded the specialist, firmly. “I’ll bring 
one with me, if you'll grant permission.” 

“Certainly, Doctor Murry,—go right ahead and do 
what you think is for my patient’s good. Is it neces¬ 
sary for me to call, also?” inquired the junior physician. 

“Not particularly necessary, but two weeks from to¬ 
day I wish you would come in on the case again, and 
then I can tell you definitely what hope there is,” re¬ 
joined Doctor Murry ethically. 

“I’ll do it with pleasure. A notation in my record 
book to that effect would not be a bad idea. ‘Two 
weeks from today,’ ” he repeated, as he reached for his 
fountain pen. 

The next morning found the consulting surgeon, 
Doctor Murry, and his special nurse at “The Maples.” 

“Expecting me, Mrs. Breckenridge?” 


GLAD RAY 


353 


“Yes, Doctor Murry,” and Gladys extended her deli¬ 
cate hand. 

“How is the world serving you this beautiful Spring 
morning ?” 

“Now that I know the operatioh is truly going to 
take place, there has come over me a feeling of confi¬ 
dence,” she replied. 

“That is just the way to start in with your treat¬ 
ments,” Doctor Murry returned, professionally. “I 
have brought your ‘special’ nurse with me this morn¬ 
ing,” he added, “and she will see that all orders are 
properly carried out.” 

“Where are you, Nurse?” questioned the blind 
woman, eager to touch the fingers of the one into 
whose care she was to be placed. “I thought there was 
a strange rustle in the room.” 

“I am right here, Mrs. Breckenridge,” came the 
answer, soft and musical. “Will you shake hands with 
me, too?” 

“Yes, surely I will,” and Gladys Longworth Breck¬ 
enridge permitted her cool fingers to be held between 
both warm palms of the nurse, who possessed the 
soothing touch which the patient had so often craved 
during her present illness. “You speak so sweetly,— 
as though you could sing. Do you sing, Nurse?” 

“No, Mrs. Breckenridge,—unless the song of my 
soul (which understands the call of the birds better 
than most people understand the warbling symphonies) 
is singing.” 

“Have you been associated much with birds ?” 


354 


GLAD RAY 


“Yes, indeed,” she exclaimed enthusiastically. “I 
was brought up in the pine forests of the North, where 
we have many varieties of beautiful song birds, and it 
has been my privilege to know and imitate each one.” 

“How delightful you were selected to care for me. 
I, too, love the birds and flowers better than most 
people do. Every hour since I became—became— 
blind, birds and flowers have been my closest friends, 
unless it was little children I would meet, and whose 
tender, birdlike, trilly voices I could hear, as my sec¬ 
retary wheeled me about on trips through the parks.” 

Doctor Murry was pleased at the friendly greetings. 

“Now, Miss Ray,” he concluded aside, after a short 
conversation with Mrs. Breekenridge, “I will leave you 
to follow my instructions minutely. Remember, Miss 
Weeks is to be permitted no more than one hour in the 
morning with Mrs. Breekenridge, and then only on 
condition that the patient’s history is reading more fav¬ 
orably each day.” 

“I will do exactly as you have directed, Doctor 
Murry.” Glad Ray commenced by adjusting the 
patient’s pillows, and making her more comfortable. 

“Then, goodbye, until two weeks from yesterday, 
when the regular physician, Doctor Harper, and I will 
call again to observe the result of your labors. I shall 
expect you to report to the hospital should anything 
unforeseen take place.” 

Both women listened to the surgeon’s retreating 
footsteps until they heard the lower door close gently 
behind him. 

After more than a week of tender and conscientious 


GLAD RAY 


355 


care, Mrs. Breckenridge came to the conclusion that 
about half of her illness was due to the face that 
proper nursing had not been given her particular case. 

“Please continue reading, my dear. I am profoundly 
impressed by your sincere and sympathetic tones. But 
first answer me one question: How long have these 
beautiful ideas been so much a part of your person¬ 
ality ?” 

“Well,” Nurse Ray responded, “since I finished the 
Eighth Grade, I have read everything possible although 
I have had no direct instructions and do not think I 
am altogether positive on my views of life. This much 
I do know: Every moment of my existence there has 
been experienced a pure, subtle, peaceful knowledge of 
the Oneness with God.” 

“Irrespective of your calling in life, your views seem 
quite defined,” commented the older woman. “Why 
did your education cease with the Eighth Grade?” 

“Always I have craved more education, but was not 
able to finish my first year in High. Until this op¬ 
portunity came for me to attend the Nurse’s Training 
School, I had come to the conclusion my educational 
advantages were about over. This is my senior year 
at school,—you know I graduate this coming June.” 

“Do you lean toward any particular creed?” en¬ 
quired Mrs. Breckenridge. 

“I had never thought of any of my views belonging 
to any specific school. They came to my consciousness 
so naturally that a specific creed would have interfered 
with my progress and broadness of perception. It 
would have narrowed me down to a one-man idea of 


356 


GLAD RAY 


faith. I am trying to get away from man-made dog¬ 
mas and the bigotry of tradition; trying to appreciate 
the sublime Oneness of Infinite Personality or the Uni¬ 
versal Brotherhood of Man; and to me there can be no 
particular creed in a constantly progresive and univer¬ 
sal religion. My simple belief must be UNDER¬ 
STOOD, ATTAINED and EXEMPLIFIED. The 
golden philosophy of: “Do unto others as you wish 
others to do unto you,” seems to me to be fair and 
reasonable.” 

“You know that I am blind don’t you?” 

“Why certainly; but I also know that there is noth¬ 
ing superior to the Power and Will of God. I know 
that He is the All-Generous and Divine Sense of 
Truth, Principle and Love, which enables me to very 
conscientiously carry out the Doctor’s orders, and at 
the same time look directly through all mortal afflic¬ 
tions and realize the necessity for moral, mental and 
physical effort,—and the infinite instruction and spir¬ 
itual opportunities to be derived from any task set be¬ 
fore us, or which we are forced to bear. I know that 
Spiritually we are Created in His Perfect Image. I 
know that every Created condition is based on God’s 
Understanding and His Infinite Wisdom,—and in 
some intricate manner expresses His Love. I know 
that ALL IS PROGRESS, TRUTH AND LOVE: 
and that with your Spiritual sense of sight , you can 
see and have perfect understanding, and that YOUR 
IMMORTAL, SPIRITUAL YOU IS WITHOUT 
AFFLICTIONS. 

“Nurse, you are so comforting,—so very, very com- 


GLAD RAY 


357 


forting! Please tell me, did you originate the little 
book from which you read to me yesterday?” asked 
Mrs. Breckenridge. 

“I did; yet my introduction to these progressive 
ideas came about from reading the inspirations of great 
writers who stimulated my understanding until I 
could no more withhold writing my own thoughts in 
booklet form, than I could withstand believing in 
them.” 

“Will you read some more, my dear, I need every 
word so much,—so much,” she repeated. “Do you 
know I can almost see your face,” and the blind woman 
smiled serenely. 

Once more Glad Ray began to read in her low, sweet 
voice,—a voice, like soothing music, tenderly ascend¬ 
ing or descending according to the demands of the 
soul. 


“Even though from mortal sense there is sepa¬ 
ration in the flesh, there never was and never can 
be separation in Spirit. 

“Spirit, being Divine, and I (Spirit) being born 
in the Image and Spiritual Likeness of the Divine 
Creator, and OF HIM, (and knowing the impos¬ 
sibility of the death of the Divine Creator) know 
also it is impossible for that which is Spiritual to 
die. Therefore, I believe in Eternal Life because 
I, Spirit, am of God; and God being Divine Spirit, 
can never die but IS Eternal Life. 

Spirit is revealed in the Eternal, the Immortal 
and the Divine Manifestations of the ONENESS 

OF BEING. 


358 


/ 


GLAD RAY 


“Oneness of Being is the perfectly blended and 
complete unity of Principal, Mind, Love, Good 
and Truth. 

“There is no fear. There is no doubt. We can 
neither see nor feel fear or doubt, because they do 
not possess power, shape or life,—therefore fear 
positively does NOT exist. Fear is an excuse not 
a reason. Fear is a delusion or illusion. 

“Fear is a coward’s weak substitute for lack of 
application and interest in the constant advance¬ 
ment we may attain every day. Fear, ignorance, 
superstition and suspicion are but illusive terms 
and excuses, not reasons. 

“Heaven is the Cause of Right. Heaven is a 
wholesome manner of living, good health, physi¬ 
cal energy, normal mentality, moral efficiency and 
Spiritual Unity. 

“Hell is not a place but a condition. Hell is 
regret and tears, a stagnation of energy and ma¬ 
terial mind where will-power, force, truth, ambi¬ 
tion and genuine interest in life have taken a very 
unnecessary vacation. There never was and never 
can be any such condition as stagnation in the Ac¬ 
tive, Living application of DIVINE PRINCIPLE. 

“Hell, not being a location, and not possessing 
power, shape or life, has no part nor place within 
or about us. Hell is moral stagnation and spine¬ 
lessness,—a term or condition unworthy consider¬ 
ation. Hell could not possibly live, as nothing is 
real or lives unless a part of the Creation of God. 

“We must idealize the REAL in order to realize 
the IDEAL. Principle, truth, love, unselfishness, 


GLAD RAY 


359 


loyalty and justice are perfect ideals; while the 
combination is the producer of Utopian Reality. 

“God cannot radiate anything but good, any 
more than the sun can radiate anything but light. 
Good, like the sun’s rays, may seem to be absent 
temporarily, but never destroyed. Good can no 
more be retarded nor prevented from convincing 
the world of its Unlimitedness and Perfectness, 
than dark clouds can forever remain before the 
sun’s rays. GOOD IS INFINITE AND ETER¬ 
NAL. GOOD IS GOD, just as divine LOVE 
IS GOD. 

“The Unity of Purpose exemplified by Truth, 
Love, Unselfishness, Immortality and the Eternal 
Oneness of Being is all plainly and perfectly em¬ 
braced in the Creations of God or Infinite Prin¬ 
ciple. 

“God (Divine Spirit) is the practical, the spir¬ 
itual, the beautiful, the wholesome, and the per¬ 
fect in Justice, Good, Truth, Peace, Unselfishness, 
Consideration, and all the Universal attributes 
which exemplify the Oneness of Being. 

“The Life-Beautiful sings constantly in perfect 
harmony with Divine Spirit, this melody: 

Reflect thou ME while life you plod, 

For I AM LOVE,—and LOVE IS GODS 

“Dear Nurse,” Mrs. Breckenridge reached for the 
warm hand of the reader, “if those thoughts might be 
absorbed by every man and woman, how much more 
glorious this world would be,—and broader too. Par¬ 
don me for interrupting,—please read on.” 

And Glad Ray read:— 


360 


GLAD RAY 


Cause and effect are visible everywhere and at 
every moment. Cause and effect are Natural 
Laws, and perfect and subtle compensation of the 
Creator. Cause and effect comprise the wisdom 
of compensation, and the justice and impartiality 
of Eternal Progression and Universal Education. 

“The difference between the saved and the sin¬ 
ner is: The saved has found within himself his 
own Divine Right of Self-C ontrol, and his inher¬ 
ent right to power, THROUGH GOD, over all 
material conditions. The sinner is the materially 
weak mortal who indifferently wishes to be good 
but without genuine energy. And instead of dis¬ 
covering HOW to make USE of the unlimited 
forces within him, is materially dominated and 
controlled BY them. This unhealthy and un¬ 
natural condition of material dominion is error 
which is gradually eradicated and, eventually 
through the Laws of Compensation directed and 
dominated by the Wisdom of God. 

No one can defy the laws of God and succeed with 
it, for Compensation is a natural law and ABSO¬ 
LUTE. Always we pay. Always we learn. This 
is Infinite WISDOM. When we are prepared, we 
receive. What we think we need is one thing; but 
what we receive IS what we need and is the Law 
of Compensation and HIS WISDOM. 

“Vindictiveness, selfishness, indifference and 
haughtiness are traits of which every mortal 
should be ashamed. Forgiveness, humility, jus¬ 
tice and love are the spokes in the wheel of har¬ 
mony, Brotherly Love and Universal Christianity. 
They enrich life and lead men onward and upward 
with God. 


GLAD RAY 


361 


Laziness, untruthfulness, dishonesty and cow¬ 
ardice like any error, can be absolutely and com¬ 
pletely conquered through Control, REAL Effort 
and Self-Respect. There is a world of difference 
between lackadaisical effort and REAL effort. 

“God is Living and Everlasting Principle. God 
is Control. God is Truth. God is Love. God is 
the Infinite Good in ALL . 

“Our thoughts are Living things and a part 
of the progressive Creative purpose. AS WE 
THINK, SQ WE LIVE. 

“Because we do not possess the same thoughts 
or views on questions of today as we did yester¬ 
day, only proves we are in harmony with the law 
of Progress. We develop and unfold in thought 
and purpose every hour of every day when in per¬ 
fect accord with the principles of Control, Truth, 
Real Effort and Spiritual Love; this is Universal 
Growth and the Natural Law of Compensation. 

“For what we frequently believe we are un¬ 
justly deprived, also exemplifies the Law of Com¬ 
pensation. If we are perfectly prepared for our 
material needs we receive them; if they were 
FOR US AND WE WERE READY FOR THEM, THEY 

WOULD BE OURS; this is the Law of Com¬ 
pensation. Principle directs, develops, prepares 
and bestows according to our needs, regardless of 
our material desires. There is nothing more Mag¬ 
nanimous, nothing more Subtle or Perfect than 
the Judgment, the ALL-Seeing Wisdom and Jus¬ 
tice of the Divine Creator. 


362 


GLAD RAY 


“Truth is God, just as everything Good and 
Manifest of the Divine Oneness of Being, is God. 
We must believe in Truth and live in Truth, just 
as we believe in God and live in God,— not as a 
limited, final conception, but as a limitless, uni¬ 
versal, progressive idea of the Omnipotence and 
Omniscience of the Eternal God. 

“They who will not progress out of ancient dog¬ 
mas and man-made creeds into the unlimited fields 
of Universal Intelligence and Truth, and they who 
will not see God in Everything Good, are tempor¬ 
arily chained by the ignorance and errors of mortal 
mind and flesh; they are pitiful bigots and slaves 
of tradition. However, in the unfoldment of Lim¬ 
itless Time, the Divine Promises will be under¬ 
stood and received by ALL; and in the mean¬ 
while and forever, the Creative Universal Intelli¬ 
gence (Truth, Love and God) will continue 
as always,— ETERNAL. 

“Our greatest advancement mentally and mor¬ 
ally is attained through the silent, unselfish love 
we bestow on others, and not so much in the love 
we receive. Though we may become encouraged 
and rejoice in receiving, there is no glory so mani¬ 
fest of Divine Wisdom, as the unselfish giving of 

LOVE. 

Without material crucifixions, pain and sorrow, 
we frequently fail to lean on and perceive the 
WISDOM and ETERNAL PRESENCE OF 
GOD. Sometimes we rebel at His Wisdom,—this 
is useless for, until we accept His Knowledge and 
Leadership, we are slower to progress, slower to 


GLAD RAY 


363 


comprehend the Mercy in His subtle methods, and 
Growth is vastly more difficult. When we abide 
by His Word, then Eternal unfoldment becomes 
clear and defined, and gradually we understand 
the Spiritual Perfectness where limitations, dis¬ 
tortions or miseries of any kind cannot exist.” 

“You read as one inspired. Where did you go to 
school?” asked Mrs. Breckenridge. 

“Only to a country grade, and a few months in Du¬ 
luth where I received part of my first year of High 
School,” admitted Glad Ray. 

“Why did you not finish High School, my dear?” 
“Well,”—hesitated the pretty nurse. 

“Didn’t your family appreciate what an education 
would mean to a girl of your striking characteristics ?” 

“It was too long a trip each day for the old horse, 
and in cold weather there was no place for him to 
stand under shelter. The winters up North are ter¬ 
ribly severe, you know. My folk were not financially 
able to keep me in town. I purchased some very fine 
books to read,—books on birds and flowers as well as 
works superior to the kind I have been reading to you.” 

“Your views indicate that you have made a fine 
choice in literature. What is your favorite?” 

“That is difficult to answer offhand. Possibly some 
of the works treating on the subjects just read. Such 
books as this teach me I need have no fear of death, 
which is one of my greatest sources of comfort and 
encouragement.” 

“Your views are not those of youth in general.” 


364 


GLAD RAY 


“Neither were my young years like those of the 
average girl.” 

“Possibly being brought up in the forests,” sug¬ 
gested the blind patient, “without friends, and meeting 
no one unless—” 

“Unless they were hunters, tourists or fishermen. 
Books were my companions. Especially have I al¬ 
ways been eager for literature expounding theories of 
the future life,” rejoined the nurse with frank sin¬ 
cerity. 

“Has the future troubled you at so early an age?” 
The film covered eyes were turned in Glad Ray’s di¬ 
rection. 

“Yes, considerably,” she sighed. 

“You are in good health?” 

“Indeed, yes. The motive is wholly selfish, I guess. 
My mother, who has passed out, suffered much. The 
realization that she was socially crucified by pious 
hypocrites because of her immature but honest ideals, 
has made me yearn to be rid of every particle of vin¬ 
dictiveness. 

“Poor—poor woman!” sighed Mrs. Breckenridge. 
“And, of course you learned to harbor no resentment 
toward your mother, and to have no fear of death?” 

The patient closed her eyelids and pressed her hands 
over them as though to hide vivid and painful recol¬ 
lections. 

“The only comfort I ever had since becoming old 
enough to realize the loss of mother and father, was 
that they were living in Truth and Spirit with me, even 
if I could not visualize them in the material flesh. In 


GLAD RAY 


365 


order to believe this I would have to know, without a 
doubt, that even after mortal flesh had decayed from 
my mother’s unselfish material body, her Eternal 
Oneness with God is the Law of Principle which 
brings her ever close to me. Though she is gone in 
mortal flesh, yet her Immortal self lives forever. 
I always try to act, think and speak in a manner worthy 
of the companionship of my mother’s beautiful Spirit. 
I believe that, Spiritually we are made in the Image 
and Likeness of God; so as God cannot die, and we are 
taught we are Spiritually created in His Image,— 
Spiritually we cannot die; so, therefore, there is no 
real death, no separation, space or time.” 

“How old were you when your mother died?” 

“I do not know,” sighed the nurse. All I am posi¬ 
tive of, is that my Aunt Susan and Uncle Jack Sulli¬ 
van of Pike Lake, Minnesota, brought me up as pru¬ 
dently as they knew how.” 

Glad Ray closed the manuscript from which she 
was reading, and took the thin, cool hands of the pa¬ 
tient within her own, as the hour was fast approaching 
for the invalid’s afternoon sleep. 

“Forgive me, Mrs. Breckenridge; I did not realize 
for a moment that we were reading too long. Also, 
anything pertaining to the death of either your rela¬ 
tives or mine, is hardly conducive to the restoration of 
your good health, according to Doctor Murry’s final in¬ 
structions.” 

“Doctor Murry does not know the main reason for 
my physical agony. Blindness is but a mortal condi¬ 
tion, and is an insignificant factor, compared with the 


366 


GLAD RAY 


mental torture I have suffered for years and years, 
which no earthly physician can cure. I have silently 
endured this agony. And do you know, Nurse, I have 
reasoned it all out that it will do me good to unburden 
my secret and bitter sorrow to you. It is such a won¬ 
derful comfort to know that in Spirit there is no death. 
My baby died in infancy. I cannot tell you all,—not 
today—but I must tell you soon.” The blind woman 
controlled her emotion with considerable effort. 

“God will give you grace to bear your secret burden 
if you have faith in Him and believe in Immortality 
and Everlasting Life. All morbid memories will leave 
you, and you will experience a demonstration of peace 
through the knowledge of Truth. When once you 
embrace Truth as your Perfect Guide, then you have 
no further right to cultivate the empty, worthless, 
powerless, lifeless companions named Morbidity and 
Doubt. They are mistakes and nothingness. 

“Yes, my dear Nurse, that is true; I quite forgot.” 

“If you will pardon me,” suggested Glad Ray, 
“Truth never yet traveled the same road, under any 
pretext, accompanied by Morbidity and Doubt. Those 
worthless nonentities have neither power, shape nor 
form; while Truth is Everlastingly before us in every¬ 
thing good.” 

“How comforting your words are to me. I have 
never been able to get over that terrible blow,—the 
death of my little daughter. My arms have fairly 
ached, so pitifully have I yearned to hold her to my 
heart.” 

“Please don’t let the tears come, Mrs. Breckenridge. 


i 


GLAD RAY 


367 


We must have you in perfect condition for the opera¬ 
tion,—and you will be, I am certain.” 

“Yes,—yes, I know, but it will do me no harm to 
speak of my child,—my wonderful baby.” 

“In a way it will, Mrs. Breckenridge. You are bow¬ 
ing to harrowing thoughts; you are giving way to de¬ 
luding memory; when all the while there is Hope, 
Happiness and Infinite Love all about you. Infinite 
Love must be your guide.” 

“I understand,” sighed the patient. 

“You cannot ask Infinite Love to walk behind you, 
and be invited to your side only when you are stumb¬ 
ling. HE must be your Guide constantly, to share in 
EVERYTHING, and you must make HIM your 
ALL . Without HIM your path will be filled with 
mocking errors. WITH HIM ALL IS PEACE AND 
UNDERSTANDING .” 

“That is right,” answered the blind woman remin- 
esciently. 

“Will you sleep and rest a little now, if I first bathe 
your forehead and eyes?” asked the nurse a bit anx¬ 
iously. 

“Ell try. Sleep is never so beautiful as when I 
dream I am holding my golden-haired baby girl. 

“There now,” softly spoke the nurse, as she finished 
bathing the feverish eyes of the patient and placed the 
bowl and towel on a nearby stand, “you will feel more 
refreshed after this sponging. Allow me to arrange 
your pillows and I will leave you for an hour’s rest.” 

As Glad Ray smoothed the under sheet and bent 
over to lower the pile of soft pillows, her gold locket, 


368 


GLAD RAY 


which had been concealed next to her bosom, slipped 
from under the white uniform and fell against the 
cheek of her patient. 

“What’s that?” cried Mrs. Breckenridge in alarm. 

“Don’t be frightened,” the nurse answered reassur¬ 
ingly, “that was only my locket. Please excuse my 
awkwardness.” 

“Your LOCKET?” She reached frantically for the 
object in question. 

“Yes,—that is the only bit of jewelry my blessed 
mother had to leave me, and I wear it constantly.” 

“Your MOTHER?—Locket ?—YOUR LOCKET?” 
she demanded almost fiercely. 

Nurse Ray, in astonishment, took the wildly grop¬ 
ing fingers and calmly directed them to the small token 
of love against the outside of her uniform. 

“Yes,—yes, that is like it!” Clutching at the nurse 
with one hand, and holding tightly to the locket with 
the other, the blind woman cried feverishly: 

“What is engraved on the outside of it? I can feel 
the lettering on the surface with my fingers ?” 

“It reads,” Glad Ray endeavored to restrain her agi- 
taton, “ ‘From—” 

“Does it read: ‘From Mother to Glad Ray’?” inter¬ 
rupted the patient, frenzied with the deliberateness of 
the nurse who had concealed her own emotion. 

“Did you read that with your fingers as the blind 
read?” A cold perspiration covered Glad Ray’s tem¬ 
ples and the palms of her hands. 

“No! No! I have never learned to read with my 
fingers. I gave a locket to my child in her infancy. 


• GLAD RAY 


369 


Until now I believed her to be dead. Tell me,—” 
Mrs. Breckenridge pursued trembling with emotion, 
‘hell me—please don’t keep me in suspense. You see 
it; does it say: ‘From Mother to Glad Ray?’ ” The 
frantic woman dropped the locket, and with both 
hands grasped the shoulders of the nurse. 

“Yes,—yes,” moaned Glad, as tears welled from her 
eyes. “I don’t understand.” 

“Is there a picture of a woman—just a face on the 
right half, inside? Is there a lock of light brown hair 
in the other?” gasped the excited sufferer. 

“Yes, Mrs. Breckenridge, both the picture and the 
curl are there. Can you—can you be—my—my—” 

“My child! My baby! My baby! I am your 
mother! Your own true mother! DO YOU HEAR 
ME? I AM YOUR OWN MOTHER!” 

“Oh God! Can it be? Can it be possible? How 
good! Dear God, how good!” Kneeling by the bed, 
Glad Ray at last buried her tear-stained face against 
the bosom of her own mother. 

With their arms about each other, sobs and tears 
convulsed both women as they bravely tried to repress 
their emotion under the tremendous strain of this most 
unexpected revelation. 

“Mother! My own, darling Mother! sobbed Glad 
Ray. 

“My baby! My baby! You are my baby! Great 
God how merciful to give me back my baby!” 

Love, tears and utmost happiness were so joyously 


370 


GLAD RAY 


blended that at that moment more rational explana¬ 
tions of events were beyond human effort. 

“Mother, darling, is there the least little doubt in 
your heart now, that I am your lost child ?” 

“No, no, my baby! My baby!” And Gladys Long- 
worth Breckenridge again and again covered the tear- 
stained face of her daughter with kisses, caressing her 
most tenderly as she sobbingly voiced her gratefulness 
to God. 

“There is not a particle of room for doubt, is there, 
Mother darling ?” Gladys patted the warm cheeks of 
her little girl grown tall. “But how could you remem¬ 
ber, verbatim, what you wrote?” 

“When you are a mother, my precious child, you 
will understand it all.” 

“That was a foolish question,—but I, too have suf¬ 
fered a thousand heartaches.” 

“It must have been terrible for you, baby girl. Did 
you find the silver and the paintings in the trunk?” 

“Everything was as you said it would be. Dear old 
Uncle Jack cried with me when we found so many love 
tokens, yet not one single page or trinket to tell me of 
my mother’s name.” 

“There were initials on the ancestral silver if I re¬ 
member correctly.” 

“Yes, an old English ‘L’, which only made the mys¬ 
tery deeper.” 

“That was the first letter of my girlhood name, dear. 
The name of ‘Longworth’ is an old and proud one.” 

“Then virtually my name is 'Longworth’ ?” 

“Legally, dear child, you have no name.” 


; GLAD RAY 


371 


‘‘What was my father’s name? Please, please tell 
me.” 

You do not know him, but I have frequently heard 
of his skill and ability, and possibly you may meet him 
some day, so I presume it will be best to tell you 
everything.” Gladys Longworth Breckenridge related 
truthfully to her only daughter the mistakes and sor¬ 
rows of her young womanhood, and concluded by say¬ 
ing: 

“Your father’s name is Doctor Raymond Hallaway.” 

“Doctor Hallaway! The surgeon?” gasped Glad 
Ray in astonishment. “Is he my father?” 

“Doctor Hallaway is your father. Have you heard 
of him ?” 

“Yes. Naturally I would hear of him in my line of 
work,” she answered, wondering how she could dis¬ 
cover her parents’ attitude toward each other without 
betraying the confidence of either. 

“He has developed into a gifted and learned man. 

I did not comprehend how much there was in him, nor 
the depth of his love until after I married Judge 
Thomas Breckenridge and too late. It is all over now. 

I made a pitiful error when I gave him up. Three 
people could have righted the mistakes of two, and 
your babyhood would have been so happy. My error 
was not only intolerance, but youthful indiscretion and 
impulsiveness. Surely I am to be forgiven for doubt¬ 
ing his intentions—I have suffered so from mistaken 
judgment.” Once more the hot tears rolled softly 
down the pale cheeks. “Blessed baby girl! If I could 
only see your face!” 


372 


GLAD RAY 


“I know you will Mother, darling. I know you 
will.” 

“If your features are in harmony with your wonder¬ 
ful voice, then Divine Spirit has been good to you.” 

“You will feast on many sights of which you have 
heretofore been deprived. Just to think, I have been 
caring for my very own mother all these days, and 
never dreamed of such a wonderful privilege!” 

Only at intervals could either Mrs. Breckenridge or 
Glad Ray quell their tears long enough to much more 
than speak the other’s name. Gradually there came 
the relaxation of appreciated calm; after which both 
nurse and patient were better able to unfold the mys¬ 
teries of the years. 

“Where is Mrs. Allen, my baby, Glad?” asked the 
mother unable to realize her child had grown to wom¬ 
anhood. 

“She was burned in the Hinckley Forest Fire on her 
way North to visit Uncle jack and Aunt Susan. That’s 
the reason I came to be in the pine forests all my life. 
There was no place else for me to go,—I had no home. 
No one knew my mother’s name. No one else wanted 
me.” 

“Terrible! Terrible! Do you recall Mrs. Allen, 
dear?” 

“No, Mrs. Breckenridge,—Mother, darling,” cor¬ 
rected Glad Ray, as the tears still persisted in playing 
a conspicuous part. “Her relatives, by marriage, were 
very kind and took me in. They have been as good to 
me as they knew how, and bestowed such advantages 
as they could afford.” 


GLAD RAY 


373 


“Did they tell you about me?” Gladys asked 
jealously. 

“Yes, Mother; but they didn’t know your name, and 
all they had to prove I belonged to someone else, was 
the gold locket.” 

“And the little iron trunk?” interposed the sick 
woman, eager to settle the least question of identity. 

“Oh yes! I have that here with me at school. I 
have always hoped to find you ever since I was old 
enough to realize the pitiful loss of a mother’s love. 
Yet, the little iron trunk has been like an altar to me, 
before which I often knelt with your sweet face in the 
locket before me.” 

“Poor baby! My poor, poor baby. How my heart 
has bled for you!” Again the loving mother-arms em¬ 
braced the kneeling figure, and tears mingled with the 
soft, golden hair of her child. Did you find my 
letter in the top of your trunk?” 

“I have it here in my purse, Mother, always waiting 
and anxious to prove my relationship.” Glad arose 
and crossed over to the closet assigned to her for outer 
garments. “Here it is; shall I read what you wrote? 
Let me draw up this tiny rocker as my knees tremble 
under me.” 

“Yes, darling. Mother was selfish in her intense 
joy. Of course take the little rocker, but draw it close 
to the edge of my bed, so I may touch you every mo¬ 
ment.” The proud woman ran her delicate fingers 
over the outline of the nurse’s beautiful face. 


374 


i 


GLAD RAY 


“Do you remember how you commenced the letter, 
Mother?” 

Without an instant’s hesitation, Gladys Brecken- 
ridge began: “‘Precious Little Love Baby’.” 

“That's it exactly.” Then Glad Ray read in her ex¬ 
pressive way, with voice so sweet and low, almost to 
the close of the letter when her mother interrupted her, 
finishing not only the farewell missive to her baby girl, 
but the postscript as well. 

“To think my own baby has been caring for me is 
equally as marvelous, dear child. Had it not been for 
the little locket slipping out of place, we might have 
gone on considerably longer before we recognized our 
relationship.” 

“Some way, some how, the Truth eventually would 
have revealed itself. The Manifestation of Truth is 
Absolute,” declared Glad. “You know, we were just 
speaking about ‘compensation’ ”. 

“Quite right; how beautifully the laws adjust them¬ 
selves.” 

“God’s Wisdom and Truth need no material assist¬ 
ance. Truth cannot remain concealed. Mother! My 
own, darling Mother! I have always declared some 
time and some how I would feel the tender touch of 
my own mother’s hands.” 

For a few moments Glad Ray was too overcome to 
say more, but rested her flushed cheek against her 
mother’s. In this feast, the most sublime of all loves, 
—love between mother and child—was consummated 
the priceless virtues of forgiveness and understanding. 


GLAD RAY 375 

“Dear God, how merciful to have my baby home 
once more!” 

“Mother!” 

“Glad Ray ! My own precious Glad Ray!’’ 

“Mother! My blessed mother!” 


CHAPTER XXVI 


O N THE following morning Glad Ray began to 
set in operation a well defined plan she had 
worked out during the night to bring about a reconcili¬ 
ation between her father and mother. 

“Material law declares their pathways continue in 
opposite directions” mused Glad Ray. “How grateful I 
am that I know the Oneness of Mind and the Power of 
Love. Divine Intelligence could not make a mess of 
two lives. Even an ordinary human can see how 
happiness can be brought about.” 

During her hour off duty Glad hurried to the office 
of Dr. Murray. She was invited into the consultation 
room where she told the great surgeon the story in 
detail. 

“And I am the long lost daughter of Gladys Long- 
worth Breckenridge,” Glad concluded. 

“You? Are you positive Miss. Ray?” 

“I have all the proofs; but my finding her and she 
finding me is beyond all human speculation.” 

“Well! Well! I surely congratulate you, indeed—” 
“Now, Doctor, pardon me for seeming bluntness,— 
but there is no time for mincing words. May I con¬ 
tinue?” Glad Ray persisted, almost impatiently. 

“I am listening,” rejoined the surgeon,—unable as 
yet to see beyond the girl’s personal gain in this 
unusual discovery. 


376 


GLAD RAY 


377 


Well, here is a very brief history, as mother re¬ 
lated it to me, of the illegitimacy of my birth.” 

‘'Illegitimacy!” 

“I thought that would surprise you a little. Ac¬ 
cording to man-made laws I am,—well, my father 
(not Judge Breckenridge whom you knew before 
he died) but my own father is living and does not 
know my mother and I are on earth. Now what I 
desire you to do, is to bring Doctor Hallaway in on 
this operative case, but not mention his name to Mrs. 
Breckenridge, until some time following the opera¬ 
tion.” 

“Why Doctor Hallaway, in particular?” 

“Because ,—because he is my father .” 

“Great Scott, girl! Are you aware of what you are 
saying?” 

“If I were not absolutely certain —because of actual 
proofs in black and white, as well as through the 
heartbreaking confession of my mother, Mrs. Brecken¬ 
ridge—I could never have come to you and asked this 
favor.” 

“What do you wish me to do?” asked Doctor Mur¬ 
ry, puzzled as to the girl’s motives. 

“I have learned mother still loves Doctor Hallaway, 
but deliberately married another for reasons I haven’t 
time to explain. The Doctor has never married, and 
has always appeared to me to have a ‘feminine’ reason’ 
for his single life. I wish you to ask him to perform 
this operation, after we get mother prepared and 
ready in the operating room, and you suddenly feel 
too miserable to carry out the ordeal.” 


378 


GLAD RAY 


“It might unnerve him, were he to ascertain the 
identity of the patient,” deliberated Dr. Murry. 

“Not if neither of us pretends to notice his dis¬ 
covery. If he does not find out during the operation, 
he surely will divine it when he comes to place the 
bandages over the eyes. If not then, they will recog¬ 
nize each other on removal of the bandages. He will 
naturally be the first person within range of her 
vision. Won’t you please do this for me, Doctor?” 

“Miss Ray, I will do anything for you. Don’t you 
wish Doctor Hallaway to know of your relationship be¬ 
fore then, either?” 

“That would spoil everything. I would be forced 
to relate that which I desire him to find out for him¬ 
self. He will ask about me as soon as he recognizes 
mother, and she is able to be questioned. That is, if 
he has the real father-love. The instant I knew he was 
my father, I realized I loved him as such, for he is 
certainly a wonderful man, worth while and lovable. 
I can see now why I was so drawn toward him as a 
child might be, and with the same respect. If he 
only shows he loves mother, the rest will be simply 
glorious.” Glad Ray was more than enthusiastic with 
hope for her mother’s happiness. 

“Well, well, well! This is a revelation and a ro¬ 
mance, I declare! In the morning I intend calling at 
‘The Maples’ with Doctor Harper, and together we 
will announce the day of the operation. Have Mrs. 
Breckenridge ready for an examination by ten A. M.,” 
he concluded, professionally. 

“When the day for the operation actually arrives, 


GLAD RAY 


379 


you will then make your excuses to Doctor Harper 
about being unable to operate, and that you have 
asked the senior surgeon, Doctor Hallaway, do it for 
you,—will you, Doctor Murry?” urged Glad Ray. 

“Leave that part to me. It is easy to have a sudden 
attack of rheumatism in my right hand, isn’t it?” 

They congratulated each other on the brilliant pros¬ 
pects. Then Glad Ray hurried to the law offices of 
John Ronning, to share the great news with him. 

“My darling, why so excited? What is the rush? 
Why so flushed and so unlike your usual and com¬ 
posed self?” greeted John with genuine surprise. 

“You’d be excited, flushed, and anything in the 
world but composed, if you had just found your 
mother,—and your father too, though he is not aware 
of his new dignity.” 

“Glad,-—my Lamb! Your mother and father? 
HERE ? Tell me quickly all about it!” 

Glad Ray poured out the good news, and all her 
hopes and plans. 

“If there is anything I can do to aid you, just tell me. 
Don’t forget, little Lamb, I am your husband,” he 
whispered as he took her in his strong arms. 

“There is something you can do, but you kiss me so 
much I can’t find breath to tell you.” 

“Fire away, and I’ll be good for five minutes. Per¬ 
haps you think it’s funny to see your wife only one 
two-hour leave in a week, and sometimes not even 
that!” 

“Well, John, Injun-big-man, that is all I see you, 


380 


GLAD RAY 


too, you know. And I miss you, Love, just the same 
as you miss me.” 

“Quite true, but you have the nurses and the young 
physicians to chatter with once in awhile.” 

“And you have your clients; so my Man, John, is 
not going to be jealous, is he?” 

“No Lamb, there is no room for jealousy” 

“How good that sounds! How like the days when 
we were up in the Pines together. Those were won¬ 
derful days, Man.” 

John laughed at her new name for him; but it in¬ 
dicated the very manner in which he always impressed 
her,—a brave, REAL MAN. 

“You haven’t told me yet in what manner I can 
share in these family honors.” 

“Well, have a minister there in our new home the 
night of my graduation. During the day tell the 
County Clerk that by order of your client, you must 
secure a marriage license for Doctor Raymond Halla- 
way and Gladys Longworth Breckenridge, and then 
I’ll do the rest right there.” 

“How about securing two marriage licenses to satisfy 
your own mother and father as we satisfied Uncle 
Jack and Aunt Susan, and we can be married all over 
again. A double wedding of our own manufacture, 
on the night of your graduation and our hotise- 
warming!” 

“That would be simply splendid! I am so happy, 
and I know everything is coming out perfectly. “Man, 
my mother’s eyes will ache just from gazing at her 
newly acquired relatives, especially when she sees you, 


GLAD RAY 


381 


your mother Betty, your father and Uncle Jack, not 
to mention Aunt Susan/’ And Glad Ray laughed 
roguishly at the prospects. 

“She wont be able to take her eyes off from you, 
you little optimist,” and John patted the velvet hand, 
then kissed it gallantly. 

“Now. John-Man, I must be going. Mrs. Brecken- 
ridge (I mean mother) will be awake before I reach 
‘The Maples’ as it is,” she added. 

“Call me up, Lamb, every day and let me know how 
things are progressing.” 

“I will. Be prompt the night of my graduation.” 

“Couldn’t be other than punctual, wife-o’-my-heart. 
I have made too many plans and surprises for every¬ 
body, for me to forget the hour.” 

“Goodbye, Man, dear.” 

“Goodbye, Lamb of Love.” 


CHAPTER XXVII 


[EVERYTHING ready in the operating room, 
Miss Ray ?” 

‘‘Everything is ready, Doctor Murry. Will you be 
up in a few moments?” 

“Yes, very shortly.” 

Glad Ray’s heart fairly danced from suppressed 
excitement while she arranged the patient on the 
wheeled stretcher and guided it easily into the waiting 
Hospital elevator. After reaching the operating room 
there was a moment’s delay. Slowly, Doctor Harper 
commenced to administer the ether. 

“You won’t give me too much, will you Doctor 
Harper?” 

“No, Mrs. Breckenridge, you need have no fear.” 

“But you will give me enough that I will feel 
nothing?” 

“Please breathe naturally, and try not to speak,” 
came the kindly reply from the anesthetist. 

“Just one request, Doctor. May I please hold Nurse 
Ray’s hand ?” 

“Mother, darling,” whispered Glad Ray close to the 
ear of the patient, so Doctor Harper could not hear; 
then more audibly: “please do not speak, but go to 
sleep confidently.” Surprising the physician as well 
as herself with the courage of her declaration under 

382 


GLAD RAY 


383 


the circumstances, the nurse stood erect and continued 
aloud: '‘Remember, dear, no matter how mystifying 
are the mortal afflictions, they are nevertheless power¬ 
less in themselves, being under absolute control of 
the Creator who sways the merciful Laws of Divine 
Compensation through the wisest channels—His Wis- 
dow and Supreme Intelligence.” 

"That is better,” Doctor Harper spoke soothingly, 
giving an admiring glance in the direction of the nurse, 
the while noticing the added confidence of the patient 
as she held the hand of the younger woman. At this 
point Doctor Murry entered the operating room with 
the senior surgeon, Doctor Hallaway. 

"No objection, have you, Doctor Harper, if I ask 
our senior surgeon to do this operation today? My 
hand seems uncertain this morning,—possibly slightly 
crippled with muscular rheumatism. The financial 
arrangements will remain just the same.” 

By this time Mrs. Breckenridge was completely un¬ 
der the influence of the ether. 

"Not at all. Not at all,” repeated Doctor Harper. 
"I am glad to see you again, Doctor Hallaway. 
Haven’t met you as frequently as Doctor Murray, but 
have always heard good things about you and your 
successful operations. I am rather pleased, so long 
as it is necessary, that you will substitute for Doctor 
Murry on this particular case. Mighty fine woman.” 

"Who is she, Doctor Harper?” inquired the senior 
surgeon as he held up his hands for the sterilized 
rubber gloves to be adjusted. 


384 


GLAD RAY 


“Wife of the late Judge Breckenridge an enthusiastic 
worker in charities.” 

“I have read of her, and of several splendid deeds. 
Sad affliction to be visited on so useful a member of 
society,” exclaimed Hallaway sympathetically. “Cata- 
aracts are both uncertain and merciless.” 

The soft sweet voice of the nurse responded trust¬ 
ingly and bravely, much to the astonishment of the 
three professional and decidedly material men: 

“Cataracts can hardly be merciless when they do not 
possess the power to think.” 

“No, cataracts are devoid of actual mind, that is 
quite true; but I intended to convey the idea that they 
are merciless in effect,” corrected Doctor Hallaway, 
rather admiring the courage of Miss Ray to speak un¬ 
der conditions where a nurse is supposed to be only a 
very necessary and silent servant. 

“Please forgive me, if I seemed rude. Indeed, it 
was my sincere convictions which prompted me to 
speak.” 

“There is nothing to forgive. We all have the right 
to voice our ideas—especially when the voicing is done 
as politely as you did yours. Besides, it is a pleasure 
to be taught by your methods; and it is a fool who 
cannot learn a little something from everyone. I like 
what you said. What gave you that conception?” 

The senior surgeon motioned to the interne to re¬ 
lieve the anesthetist, Doctor Harper, so the latter 
could step to the side of the patient where there was 
a better view of the operation. 

“Nothing has power” Glad continued, “which does 



GLAD RAY 


385 


not manifest itself thru God. And cataracts are NOT 
Spiritual Manifestations; but like all material afflic¬ 
tions, they force us to recognize the Supreme Power 
of His Wisdom.” Glad Ray drew herself to full 
height, and never appeared more beautiful yet humble 
in her earnest declaration than while she continued: 
“God is Infinite Mercy and Love. What He does may 
appear cruel and unnecessary, but always it is Wisdom 
—intricate Wisdom and part of the tremendous sys¬ 
tem of groivth. Afflictions and deformities of our 
material senses and bodies are not there spiritually 
and are probably added to our common dust-to-dust 
bodies to act as object lessons or teachers. Possibly a 
better illustration might be to say that our misfortunes 
and afflictions are tests of FAITH in the Wisdom of 
God. This lovely woman might have had even more 
pitiful suffering and deprivation thru which to per¬ 
ceive the Power of God’s Hand or Direction, had this 
cataract not COMPENSATED. Yes, Doctor Hall- 
away, I believe that God’s Mysteries are blessings in 
disguise, and are deep, intricate and many. Yet, God 
is ALL MERCY and LOVE. Sooner or later we 
discover that no mortal affliction, in itself, has power, 
but is visited on us with startling justness, though in¬ 
comprehensible to us. How marvelous is SUPREME 
INTELLIGENCE! How marvelous are the LAWS 
OF COMPENSATION! How intricate subtle and 
just are HIS WAYS ! I might even add: We often 
learn the unselfish art of GIVING when we are 
STARVING! Also, we are frequently MOST CHA¬ 
RITABLE when MUCH IS TAKEN FROM USV 


386 


GLAD RAY 


‘‘How true! Great God. how true is that last re¬ 
mark. We ARE most charitable when much is taken 
from us." In spite of himself. Doctor Hallaway 
showed indications of being greatly impressed. A 
significant glance unnoticed by the others, was ex¬ 
changed between Glad Ray and Doctor Murry. 

‘‘It is evident now why Miss Ray has been our most 
conscientious nurse." Doctor Murry moved to one 
side as another nurse rolled the instrument table to 
the left of the operating surgeon. “What do you think 
of local conditions. Doctor Hallaway?" Everything 
was in shape to use the knife. 

“Ell be able to tell you better in a moment." He 
slowly drew the white sterilized gauze from the pat¬ 
ient's eyes. The wax-like features, dosed lids and 
discolored lips revealed nothing more to the attending 
surgeons than any preliminary examination for a ma¬ 
jor operation might have done. Cautiously Doctor 
Hallaway folded back one eye-lid. inserted the eye 
speculum and ordered her cap fastened more securely 
to protect his operative labors from the unruly curls 
about her forehead. “It is just possible to save the 
sight, but do not build up hope." 

There was a dead silence as the surgeon began using 

the instruments. Everyone looked on in admiration 

as he proceeded to guide the knife first upon the right 

eye. then the left, in a manner which proved his skih 

over the afflicted parts, and left no doubt in the minds 

of those present concerning his ability. In less th..n 

thirty mintites the operation was completed on both 

eves. 

* 


GLAD RAY 


387 


“Mrs. Breckenridge will either be totally blind or 
her sight restored within ten days,” commented the 
senior surgeon in his characteristically calm way. She 
is to be kept in a darkened room, with the same style 
of bandage used today, and this solution administered 
by the aid of a medicine dropper every three hours for 
two days. After that, the solution may be diluted by 
adding ten drops of sterlized water to the coll;, rim 
every day until the tenth day. Under no circumstances 
must the eyes be exposed to the minutest ray of light. 
Miss Rav, I understand, is ‘special' nurse on this case. 
Am I right ?” 

“Yes, Doctor Hallaway," the sweet voice responded 
timidly. 

“That is splendid. Now I am certain all will go 
well. At least there will be no speticemia, and the 
dressings will be properly attended to. Tomorrow I 
will drop in to see the patient." 

With his last remark, Doctor Hallaway walked leis¬ 
urely out of the operation room and down the cor¬ 
ridor toward the stairway, closely followed by Doctor 
Murry. Glad Ray once more wheeled her mother 
into the elevator assisted by Dr. Harper. 

“We might as well get in and ride down. also, sug¬ 
gested the junior surgeon. Dr. Murry. 

“Very well,” and Hallaway moved to the left to make 
room for the wheeled stretcher. *T generally walk 
down for the exercise, but as the cage is here we may 
as well ride." 

The face of Mrs. Breckenridge was wholly exposed 
but for the bandages about her eyes and forehead. 


388 


GLAD RAY 


The tapering fingers were folded gracefully across 
her breast against the soft lace of the delicate silk 
lounging robe which had been hidden during the op¬ 
eration by the regulation linen covering. On her 
slender feet were appropriate silk ribbon slippers of 
immaculate white. There was about her an atmos¬ 
phere of gentleness and culture. Glad Ray modestly 
stood back in the rear of the elevator but her eager 
eyes were taking in every glance of Doctor Hallaway’s. 
The three men, quite unconscious of any one else in 
the lift, stood in respectful admiration, gazing upon 
the beautiful woman before them, still insensible to her 
surroundings. 

As if an apparition had suddenly appeared, Doctor 
Hallaway became ashen white and his brown eyes 
—like two round pieces of highly glazed china— 
were bulging from their sockets. He lowered his 
face closer to the patient’s. He touched her cold hand 
and held it as he spoke, further betraying his unex¬ 
pected agitation. 

“Are you sure this woman’s name is ‘Brecken- 
ridge?’ ” 

The two surgeons and Glad Ray looked at Doctor 
Harper for the answer. He had been the blind 
woman’s personal physician. 

“I am positive, Doctor Hallaway. I have known 
Mrs. Breckenridge since she came back to Louisville 
a widowed bride,” answered Doctor Harper, the Breck¬ 
enridge family physician. 

Again Glad Ray and Doctor Murry exchanged 
glances. 


GLAD RAY 


389 


“Have you any idea what her name was before 
becoming the wife of the Judge?” 

“No, I have not. She has always been somewhat of 
a sphinx.” 

Slowly Gladys Longworth Breckenridge raised her 
right hand and laid it over that of Doctor Hallaway, 
who held her left within both of his. Though she was 
still under the influence of the anaesthetic, conversation 
and touching her body had disturbed her stupor. 

“She is coming out of the ether. Get her comfort¬ 
able as soon as possible,” Hallaway ordered, regaining 
his composure. “I will be up to see her in a few 
moments.” 

The elevator stopped at the second floor. To the 
right a short distance down the hall was the finest 
suite in the Hospital, selected by Miss Weeks for Mrs. 
Breckenridge. The interne wheeled the stretcher, fol¬ 
lowed by Doctor Harper and Glad Ray. The senior 
and junior surgeons, Doctors Hallaway and Murry, 
went on down to the first floor. In an hour Doctor 
Harper found Doctor Murry in the children’s surgical 
ward, where he informed him that Mrs. Breckenridge 
had recovered complete consciousness and was resting 
easily. This news was later transmitted by Doctor 
Murry to Raymond Hallaway, who had spent the in¬ 
tervening time pacing slowly up and down the first 
floor corridor. 

“Will you assume charge of Mrs. Breckenridge, as 
you performed the operation, Doctor Hallaway?” in¬ 
quired Doctor Murry. 

“I’ll be pleased to.” A peculiar smile illumined his 


390 


GLAD RAY 


serious face. “What’s the matter with Harper,—cold 
feet?” 

“Oh, no; he is mighty busy with his private practice, 
and asked that you—being here every day—assume 
responsibility and let him know when the patient is 
ready to go home.” 

“Suits me nicely. I’ll call him over the ’phone when 
her time is up here,” and Raymond Hallaway smiled at 
his good fortune. 

Within another hour Doctor Hallaway had dropped 
into see his case. “Are you in much pain, Mrs. Breck- 
enridge?” His deep voice vibrated with suppressed 
emotion. 

“No, Doctor Murry,—I am doing nicely, thank 
you.” 

The surgeon raised his finger and nodded to Glad 
Ray in such a manner she knew he did not wish the 
patient informed of her error in identity. 

“I will come in to see you every day, and even more 
frequently, if you don’t mind.” 

“How strange your voice sounds, Doctor Murray, 
but it’s an improvement I assure you,” and the patient 
smiled the same wonderful smile which had haunted 
Raymond Hallaway throughout the dreary years. 

“I’ll try and keep my voice just like this if you truly 
like it better.” 

“I do. It sounds so good and—comforting.” 

The surgeon stood gazing upon the love of yesterday 
while the muscles of his face visibly struggled with 
combined joy and regret. 

“Child, is he gone? What a blessed voice! It 


GLAD RAY 


391 


brings back the dear, dead days,—days that are gone,— 
gone forever.” 

Tears filled the eyes of Doctor Hallaway; and 
when he realized Nurse Ray might detect his emotion, 
he abruptly left the room. 

“Yes, mother, darling, he is gone.” 

“Do you know whose voice Doctor Murry’s re¬ 
sembles ?” 

“Whose, dear?” 

“Your father’s—Doctor Raymond Hallaway’s. I 
could never forget so long as there’s breath in my 
body!” 

“Will you rest now, mother, dearest?” 

“Pray, baby girl, that I will be able to see you once 
more.” 

“Yes, mother, you will; I know you will. God is 
All-Merciful.” 

* 

Nurse Ray sat quietly beside her patient until the 
latter had fallen sleep. Glad Ray wondered if it were 
possible that Doctor Hallaway had noticed how much 
her brown eyes were like his own. The resemblance 
to both parents was indeed most striking, and even 
Doctor Murry conceded the relationship after the day 
of the operation. 


CHAPTER XXVIII 


E LABORATE preparations had been in progress 
for the commencement exercises of the Training 

School for Nurses in connection with the-Hospital. 

John Ronning received word from his adopted parents 
they would accept his invitation. A room at “The 
Cedars” was made in perfect readiness for their com¬ 
fort, as were suites for the Foster Aunt and Uncle 
of Glad Ray, and Doctor Hallaway and Mrs. Breck- 
enridge,—who would arrive blissfully unaware they 
were to be among the special house-guests. 

For several days two good servants, Albert and 
Chlotilda, had been installed at “The Cedars.” John 
also moved over to the new home that he might ac¬ 
custom himself to the details of its management. A 
minister had been engaged and everything arranged 
with the exception of the licenses. The one for Doctor 
Hallaway and Mrs. Breckenridge could not be obtained 
until the latter recognized her former lover, and then 
only at the last minute after all had agreed to the 
plan. 

Three days before graduation was the date set for 
the removal of the bandages from the eyes of Mrs. 
Breckenridge. There was intense excitement under a 
well-schooled calm. Doctor Murry had his secret 
reason for being particularly anxious, which he shared 

392 



GLAD RAY 


393 


with no one but Glady Ray, who, in turn, could hardly 
restrain her joy. Doctor Abner Harper was interested 
professional, as any physician would be in a major 
case which had caused as much comment and public 
notice. Doctor Hallaway was certain if he stood be¬ 
fore his patient as the bandages were removed, a 
yearning cloistered sacredly within his breast all these 
years would be transmitted to the heart of his lost 
love. Even if sight were denied Gladys, the Doctor 
longed for the legal right to be eyes for her. He dared 
hope for the absolute success of the operation, yet well 
knew the possibilities of failure. 

It was with apparent calmness Doctor Hallaway 
entered the special room prepared for the test. There 
stood Gladys Longworth Breckenridge with out¬ 
stretched hands greeting the physicians as they pre¬ 
sented themselves. Early that morning Miss Weeks 
had delivered to the Hospital one of the patient’s most 
becoming silk afternoon gowns. Glad Ray dressed the 
blonde hair with its touches of silver, in soft waves, 
away from her face and like a crown on the top of her 
head. There was nothing to indicate the invalid, as 
all physical ailments had vanished shortly after the 
reunion of mother and daughter. The only visible 
signs of distress were bandages over the eyes, and a 
sadness about her mouth. The shades were drawn 
and soft artificial lights used. Although it was noon, 
the room appeared as twilight. 

Doctors Harper and Murray, an assistant nurse and 
an interne stood at the rear of the seat occupied by the 
patient, at the request of the senior surgeon. Slowly 


394 


GLAD RAY 


and tenderly Glad Ray began removing the bandages. 
Once or twice her fingers trembled, but as she reached 
the last squares of gauze resting against the closed lids 
of both eyes, there came over her a perfect relaxation, 
—an exalted sense of finishing a labor well done. 

Doctor Hallaway’s deep, soothing voice broke the 
tense silence: 

“Mrs. Breckenridge, even after every layer of gauze 
has been removed, please do not under any circum¬ 
stances open your eyes until the nurse instructs you 
to do so.” 

“I will do just as you say, Doctor Murry,” she 
half whispered, the corners of her lips twitching with 
nervousness. 

Doctor Hallaway raised a warning finger, and there 
was perfect quiet. He then moved about ten feet to 
the front, facing his patient, and standing as one 
transfixed with great beads of perspiration falling 
from his temples, his lips slightly parted and hands 
clinched. He nodded to Nurse Ray to continue. 

“Under no circumstances, Mrs. Breckenridge, open 
your eyes until told to do so,” came the repeated warn¬ 
ing, this time from Glad Ray, “After I count five, 
then you are to open them very slowly, looking di¬ 
rectly in front of you, and as level with the eyes as 
possible.” 

Doctor Hallaway’s gaze never left his patient for an 
instant, and his body appeared rigid. 

“One,—two,—three,—four,—five,—” for the frac¬ 
tion of a minute Gladys hesitated. 

There was perceptible anxiety shared by all present 


GLAD RAY 


395 


when the patient’s eyelids began to quiver, as she 
resolutely made up her mind to face any eventuality 
with womanly fortitude. A moment longer and the 
trembling lids barely separated. At last, wide apart, 
there opened before Raymond Hallaway the deep, 
blue eyes of the woman he loved above all else in life. 
Years of trials and mental torture passed like ethereal 
vapor into nothingness. Here before him was the 
living answer to the crowning hope of the Doctor’s 
existence. 

For several- seconds, which seemed even longer 
to those interested, Mrs. Breckenridge stared into 
space with only darkness before her. Her expression 
varied from dread to intense suspense, followed by a 
half-hearted hope which gradually became a beautiful 
reality. Tremblingly she rose and, with arms ex¬ 
tended, oblivious to the presence of more than one 
physician, cried aloud her supreme happiness: 

“I SEE! I SEE! RAYMOND! RAYMOND! 
I SEE!” 

“GLADYS ! MY OWN ! MY LOVE! COME!” 

In an instant Raymond Hallaway, the lover, had 
clasped his sweetheart within his yearning arms. There 
were tears in every eye as the great secret unfolded, 
and love met its own. Those privileged to witness the 
sublime meeting silently left the room. Alone at last, 
the surgeon and his once blind patient were seeing to 
the fullest, and believing in the IMMORTALITY OF 

LOVE and the Perfect Wisdom of the Creator. 

* * ;|< * * * * 

“My night of nights has come at last,” declared 


396 


GLAD RAY 


Glad Ray as she stood surrounded by her numerous 
relatives including Uncle Frank, Aunt Susan, Carston 
Ronning, Betty Walker Ronning, Doctor Hallaway, 
her mother and John Ronning in the large Hospital 
parlor, just a few minutes after the graduation 
exercises. 

“My darling, I am proud of you, your reputation 
as a nurse, and your perseverance in accomplishing 
that which you undertook without liberal preparation. 
I was twice proud as I feasted my eyes on you— 
the most beautiful woman in the world to me—stand¬ 
ing there among your fellow nurses receiving your 
deserved diploma,” and 'Injun-John’ tenderly placed 
his arm about the 'Lamb’ as he continued: “Fll wager 
there was not another nurse among the lot who worked 
for her sheepskin with the same unselfish reasons 
in mind that you did.” 

“MAN, how I love you because you say the en¬ 
couraging things a woman longs to hear. Don’t let 
the others catch your words, for they might think 
you were dreadfully conceited about me,—just a quaint, 
funny, blondy nurse.” Glad Ray pulled the sleeve of 
her husband’s coat playfully. “Thank you, dearest, 
just the same. I owe my success to you, John,—the 
one who gave me my opportunity. Without my MAN, 
—well you know about the orphan days, Mrs. An- 
strum and Pike Lake.” She laughed merrily as she 
pretended to shiver. 

“A girl like you, Lamb, would have been a pro¬ 
nounced success anyway.” He pressed her hand. 
“You darling Lamb!” 


GLAD RAY 


397 


“Oh, adorable MAN ! My generous MAN!” 

“I didn’t do the graduating; it was you, Lamb.” 

“No, you didn’t graduate in fact, but you made not 
only my graduation possible, but all the other things 
about to happen.” 

“I have some great surprises after we reach home,— 
one or two even you don’t know about,” and John 
Ronning chuckled softly over his secrets. 

“To think I am going HOME! To OUR Home, 
John! Your’s and mine!'’ Glad Ray exclaimed 
eagerly. 

“Yes, OUR HOME at last. Just wait until you 
see all the things I have been performing, and the 
loveliness of OUR HOME. 

“Have you?—you know.” Glad Ray nodded smil¬ 
ingly in the direction of her parents. 

“Have I! Did you think I would forget after 
seeing the new solitaire glistening on your mother’s 
finger today, and Doctor Hallaway and she not being 
able to be separated for five minutes ? They are surely 
making up for lost years.” 

“Isn’t it about time we started the remainder of 
our program? I can hardly wait to see inside of my 
new home, and most of all to have the rest of the 
evening completed.” 

John Ronning then explained to his enlarged family 
that his gift to his wife, was a residence all her own; 
and if they would enter the waiting carriages, they too, 
could enjoy the graduation meal family style, in the 
new home called “The Cedars,” which even Glad 
Ray had never entered. 


398 


GLAD RAY 


Gladys Longworth Breckenridge naturally rode by 
the side of Doctor Hallaway who made no pretense of 
keeping his hands from holding those of his promised 
bride. With them rode Aunt Susan and Uncle Jack 
Sullivan in fine new bib and tucker for their “gel’s 
graduatin’.” Sullivan poured out his pride over his 
adopted niece’s success, and Susan boasted of the pure 
and wholesome manner in which they “hed brung up 
our gel.” There was no jealousy in the happy hearts 
of Glad Ray’s parents,—instead, they opened their 
generous arms, and very humbly and appreciatively 
took the benevolent old couple in as part of the new 
family, each member of which was necessary to Glad 
Ray’s “night of nights.” 

Carston Ronning’s face was a picture of satisfaction. 
He experienced a sense of secret romance which rather 
bowed to his masculine vanity in seeing his adopted son 
married to the beautiful daughter of his first love. 

Betty, white-haired, a bit rounder, and as charming 
as ever, was all aglow with mother-pride in her 
boy’s success, and held a loving welcome for his 
“wildwoods flower,”—“the Lamb,”—Glad Ray. 

The two carriages drove under the tall arch of stone 
and iron,—the entrance gate to “The Cedars.” 

Albert and Chlotilda held wide open the main doors 
and assisted the party of eight to the reception hall. 

“Gladys, my darling, does anything about this place 
look familiar to you?” Doctor Hallaway’s remarks 
drew the attention of the other guests. 

“Raymond! How glorious! This was my girl¬ 
hood home!” exclaimed Gladys. 


GLAD RAY 


399 


“Mother, dearest, did I understand you correctly? 
Did you live here when you were a girl?” beamed 
Glad Ray. 

“Of course she did, little wife/” broke in John, 
“Isn’t it a glorious coincidence that I selected this par¬ 
ticular spot, as the entire place will have a more sacred 
significance for all of us, and especially the beautiful 
mother who can now see her own Glad Ray, thank 
God.” 

“John, my boy, how proud I am of your thought¬ 
fulness ?” championed Mother Betty, when she noticed 
Gladys and Glad Ray were too overcome to reply. 

“Well I don’t deserve a bit of credit. I owe every¬ 
thing I have so far achieved or hope to be, to the 
manly example of my Dad, and the pure influence of 
Mother Betty,” 

The guests either laughed affectedly, or coughed 
betrayingly in order to hold back the tears as John 
lifted his Mother Betty off her tiny feet in a boyish 
desire to impress her with his lasting appreciation. 

“Dinnah is ready to be served, sah,” and Albert 
bowed before his young master. 

“All right, Albert. You and Chlotilda come into the 
library with the family. There is a surprise or two 
more for everyone, which will take about ten addi¬ 
tional minutes, but which must be carried out before 
our guests sit down to eat.” 

As the entire party entered the library, a pleasant¬ 
faced man in clerical garb arose and was introduced 
as Reverend Robert Forbes, of the church in which the 
late Reverend Walker was once pastor. John Ronning 


400 


GLAD RAY 


then made a few witty remarks about soul-loves, affini¬ 
ties and ghosts—might suffice for some services, but 
as he understood jurisprudence there was a civil law 
which had to be respected as a necessary recognition 
to the dignity of our country. Hence, he had taken it 
upon himself to obey the commands of a very beautiful 
spirit, by the name of Glad Ray, to procure two mar¬ 
riage licenses, and one certificate of adoption. The 
first marriage license was issued in the name of Doc¬ 
tor Raymond Hallaway and Gladys L. Breckenridge. 
The second (which was unnecessary but repeated in 
order that the bride might have her dear mother and 
father witness the ceremony) was to unite John Ron- 
ning and Glad Ray Hallaway. The second ceremony, 
he went on to say, could not legally take place until 
after the first, and also after certain adoption papers 
had been legally signed and sworn to, thus giving the 
"very beautiful spirit” her rightful name. Everyone 
was astounded at the temerity of the young lawyer, yet 
secretly delighted, and did not wonder at his great 
success in the legal world. 

"Albert, will you please ask the three gentlemen now 
in my private study to come in also ?” 

"Yes, sah! Yes, sah! To the elder bride’s aston¬ 
ishment, white-haired Judge Dibbell and two other of¬ 
ficials of the court entered the library under Albert’s 
proud leadership. 

"Now, Reverend Forbes, if you will tie the first 
knot, we can then go on with the adoption,” ex¬ 
plained the attorney, John Ronning. 

The attention of the minister, and all the guests, was 


GLAD RAY 


401 


rivited on Doctor Hallaway’s beaming countenance as 
he bent over the chair of his promised bride. 

“Gladys, dear, that means us.” He spoke without 
hesitation, and impressively. “Are you willing and 
ready to become my own legal wife tonight as you 
have always been in my heart? Don’t you think we 
had better have the ceremony performed right now, 
beloved ?” 

“How can I, right now?” she timidly whispered. 

“Better now than tomorrow,” he pleaded with love 
indicated in every syllable. “Please dearest.” 

“But Raymond—” 

“Will you, Gladys ?” He reached for the delicate 
white hand on which glistened the engagement ring he 
had placed there only the day before. 

“Yes, Raymond,” came the sweet response, as she 
laid her hand in his. “I can see now ,—I CAN SEEN 

There were many tears shed during the short service 
as the elder groom and bride became man and wife, 
but they were tears of joy. 

“Now, friends, here is a little girl who, for many 
years, has yearned for her own parents. Particularly 
has she desired to be adopted by her own father. Is 
he willing?” 

John Ronning’s voice was indeed appealing as he 
secretly recalled the dreary life of his “Lamb,”—Glad 
Ray—of the Northern Pine Forests. 

“Willing! My precious Glad Ray!” Something 
caught in Doctor Hallaway’s throat as he struggled to 
regain his composure. “There is no greater happiness 
next to making your mother my wife, than having you 


402 


GLAD RAY 


legally my child. Come to me, Glad, for I am your 
own father.” Tears, the Doctor did not try to restrain, 
ran down his well-lined face. “From the time I first 
observed results of your professional duties, I con¬ 
sidered you the most conscientious of nurses. Since 
your identity has been made known to me, I can com¬ 
prehend the natural kindred affection and the reason 
for my decision. It is because you are of your mother, 
God bless her!” This last was uttered with added rev¬ 
erence. “My daughter, only God knows what suffer¬ 
ing this separation has caused my lonely soul to en¬ 
dure. Glad Ray, I love you 

“Gosh, ding, but this ez loike playin’ dance musick 
et a fun’rel, haint et, Susan?” The guests laughed 
heartily at Jack Sullivan’s remarks. Even Glad, who 
had rushed into her father’s arms, smiled through her 
tears. 

“Yep, et ez, Jack. Happiness ez havin' a dance, en 
mem’ry ez payin’ tha fiddler” and Susan’s pointed chin 
tilted a bit higher than usual. 

“Nothing loike fixin things one en fer all. Our gel 
is some hum dinger fer fixin’ things; en by tha way, 
John ez not so blasted fer behind tha gel that a'ways, 
ither. Huh, Susan ?” 

“Trust tha orfints. Yuh know, I was a orfint my- 
silf.” Susan clasped her hardened palms together, and 
snapped her thin jaws in her declaration. 

Most of the company had considered the Sullivans 
a pair of amusing necessities until Glad Ray, true to 
her protectors, gave everyone to understand that Uncle 
Jack and Aunt Susan had given her what the entire 


GLAD RAY 


403 


world had denied her,—the shelter of a respectable 
home and honest advice. The kindness of the Sul¬ 
livans was worth more to the appreciative heart of 
Glad Ray than fortunes, and the memory an everlast¬ 
ing example of merciful and genuine charity. 

While the adoption papers were being signed, the 
little group watched the manner of taking the oath and 
verbal answers with no small amount of interest. Deep 
in their hearts John and Glad understood that it did not 
take paper and signatures to make her any more the 
daughter of her father, than it did the flesh and blood 
of her mother. They knew too, as did Raymond and 
Gladys, that in God’s Perfect Wisdom there could not 
be illegitimacy; that illegitimacy is a man-made law 
and social deformity; one of the taints of snobbery; 
and a local situation which in no zvay effects the Wis¬ 
dom of the kind, just, loving and Gentle Jesus. 
Also that paper and signatures could neither add to 
nor take from the absolute completeness of God's Per¬ 
fect Creation. In addition, however, all four believed 
that the truest evidence of reverence for God’s Laws is 
first evinced through having respect for the Common 
Laws of State. 

“Father, now I am legally your’s and mother’s. 
This is the most wonderful day of my life! Glad Ray 
drew the doctor’s face to hers and softly kissing his 
forehead, remarked in her loving, innocent way : “Try 
not to let another tear escape, for this is the day of 
rejoicing. A greater surgeon, father, HAS MADE 
US ALL TO SEE, and GIVEN US HIS BLESSING. 

“My child! My precious baby girl!’’ wept the 


404 


GLAD RAY 


mother, as she, too, crept into the embrace of her 
husband’s arms, where her daughter already nestled. 

“Gladys, my wife! And, indeed, my Glad Ray!’’ 
Doctor Hallaway beamed with glorified affection upon 
his two loved ones. His joy was beyond words. 

“This young lady,’’ interposed Reverend Forbes, was 
married four years ago at the home of Mr. and Mrs. 
Jack Sullivan under the name they truly believed was 
all she possessed,—‘Glad Ray.’ Tonight she has re¬ 
ceived the name which is legally hers, and the mar¬ 
riage service is about to be repeated. 

“Wall, wall, this ez sure good fer her maw’s sore 
eyes tuh see Glad git married agin. Haint et, Susan ?” 

“Yep. Happy you come?” Susan then addressed 
the others. “I hed an orful toime tuh git ’im to lave 
his poipe tuh home. But I sez, sez I, thet we wouldn’t 
go a step 'til he done jes ez I tol’ him. His pipe ez 
thar, en we air here." 

No one doubted Susan’s word, nor the necessity for 
her husband’s meek expression, as she gave her chin 
an extra tilt and clamped her jaw with unusual force. 
“En I don’t quite git Glad Ray’s high talk ’bout ’Prin’~ 
ple’en ‘Inf’nite Love’; but whut iver et ez, it wurked 
out tuh perfecshun.” 

“But we havq an entire smoking outfit just for 
Uncle Jack, and a special room in which to smoke, 
while he visits us," interrupted John Ronning, as he 
winked roguishly and tilted his chin in imitation of 
Susan. Everyone joined in the laughter, and Susan 
not the least of the number. 

“Wall, wall, thet ez jes loike you, John.” The old 


GLAD RAY 


405 


man clasped his host by the hand. “Yuh dint fergit 
tha days o’ sweet cider, eh ?’’ 

“I shall never forget those days in the Pines of 
your Northern Woods where I first received your 
hospitality and saw my Lamb, nor exactly how she 
looked that memorable morning.” 

Fearful lest John relate the story of her humble 
dress and shabby shoes, Glad Ray crept close to his 
side. 

“Please, MAN, I am ready,” and Glad Ray Hallaway 
stood quiet long enough for Chlotilda to adjust the 
tulle veil and orange blossoms which thoughtful John 
Ronning had purchased for one of his surprises. After 
she was “decorated,’' as Susan put it, John presented 
his bride with a beautiful bouquet. 

“Have you ever told your mother how you sacrificed 
your desire for pretty clothes and shoes, and put your 
meagre savings into books, instead?” and the happy 
groom turned the bride about several times for the 
general admiration and inspection of the family. 

“No, John, but she is likely to find it all out if you 
keep on. Do you know that Reverend Forbes is 
waiting ?’’ 

“Yes, Glad Ray,—and I am vastly more anxious 
than the minister, but my desire has been to have your 
parents know what a brave, true girl you always have 
been; that you have proven a lovable, gentle Lamb, 
and a real glad ray to us all! ' 

• • 

The big ‘MAN’ was both truthful and generous in 
saying the things which make life worth while to a 
loyal woman. It is such a wonderful comfort to a 


406 


GLAD RAY 


good wife to know and hear from her chosen mate that 
he always sees, loves and understands; most of all 
that he finds time to tell her about it. 

John Ronning led his bride over near the fireplace, 
and close to where her mother was seated talking 
with Doctor Hallaway, who was standing. Her soft, 
white mull and lace graduating gown fell in simple 
folds following the outlines of her beautiful form. The 
flesh and cream tints of her perfect complexion radi¬ 
ated the purity of youth; while the expressive brown 
eyes, and wealth of golden hair framed in her wedding 
veil enhanced the alluring beauty of a personality com¬ 
posed of generosity, consideration and faithfulness. 
Even Carston Ronning admitted that the letters from 
his adopted son had failed to do justice to the superb 
loveliness of Glad Ray. 

“Come, Lamb, I know your dear father and mother 
are eager for a look at their lovely daughter, but I 
am just as anxious for my little bride to look around 
at me for a moment, long enough for our own promises 
to be spoken,” and the smiling groom received the 
loving attention he craved from his ‘Lamb.’ 

During the short ceremony there was profound si¬ 
lence, broken only by the impressive voice of the min¬ 
ister and the earnest responses of the “Lamb” and her 
“MAN.” 

“We would have considerable trouble to sever the 
two marriages you and I have had performed, little 
wife.” John Ronning clasped his bride to his heart, 
and kissed her full warm lips immediately after the 
ceremony. 



•‘LITTLE BRIDE, LOOK AT ME” 








































































>S 




. 




















































GLAD RAY 


407 


“Nothing can divorce the union of two loyal souls 
whose marriage is founded on the rock of Immortal 
Love,” asserted Glad Ray. 

“That is right, my Lamb. At last I am divinely 
happy.” 

“So am I, John, dear. In fact, we all have cause 
for unlimited joy and gratitude.” 

“Gratitude? Oh, ves,” John suddenly recalled, “I 
think we’d all feel grateful now to participate in the 
combined graduation and double wedding festivities.” 
Turning to Albert, he concluded: “You may now 
serve the dinner.” 

“Yes, sah,—yes, sah,” and Albert hurried away to 
do the honors. 

The bride beamed with happiness as she accepted 
John’s arm and together they led the way to the 
spacious dining room where, at either end of the ele¬ 
gantly appointed table, there was a large wedding cake, 
and mounted on the top of each cake was a minature 
bride and groom. In the center of the table was a 
huge basket of wild cherry blossoms in a harmonious 
blending of palest bud to deepest bloom. Mounted 
on the handle was a diminutive doll-nurse holding in 
her right hand a small Scales of Justice, and in the left 
a tiny diploma. Those present, the nearest and dearest 
to her, fully appreciated what it all so thoughtfully 
stood for, and the great love of John Ronning for 
Glad Ray. 











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